After a few minutes of alertness, having slept placidly, Moon starts her morning routine. She scans her tiny, concrete apartment, pours herself some water, ignores her antidepressants, and turns on the radio. Nothing great’s playing, she thinks. As she walks to her bathroom she moves her hands across her face, and there it is! Could it really be? The whisker’s still there! It’s in there good, there’s no mistaking it. The mirror confirms it—it’s long, silvery, a physical manifestation of wild possibilities. Not itchy or foreign, but a part of her she’s ecstatic to have grown so suddenly only last week. She loves how well it goes with the fresh blue yarn ball tattoo on her right shoulder.
Moon is overjoyed and prances around the room on all fours like those cats in every one of her waking thoughts. Cats of all shapes and sizes, in all kinds of whimsical situations. This celebration keeps her away from her phone, from the multitude of missed calls from her unsupportive parents, her nameless friends, even her boss who had warned her last time that tardiness would not be tolerated and had most recently called to fire her. But none of that matters anymore–not since the morning she found the vibrissa adorning her face. Finally, her private rituals of drinking out of saucers, eating raw fish, brushing her black hair and imaginary fluff, and walking around on all fours—all of this had paid off.
Moon’s celebration is abruptly interrupted by knocks on her door. “Moon? Mooooon?”, calls her best friend. “Moon, let me in! We’re worried about you.” Moon quietly stands up and opens the door. “Thank goodness you’re ok. Why aren’t you picking up? Everyone’s worried sick for you,” the friend exclaims. Moon just stares blankly. Her friend continues: “I know we’ve had our differences but I miss you. We miss you.” Her friend notices the absolute mess in Moon’s apartment, a mass of flyers and past due bills spilling at her feet. She struggles to bring back her focus to the conversation, but carries on: “Listen, Moon. You gotta stop. I called your work and they told me that you were fired. Nobody has seen you in days and you’re not returning any calls.” A look of sadness takes over her friend. She asks: “Am I the last person you saw?” Instinctively, Moon licks her hand and starts pawing at her hair. “Actually, can you stop doing that!?”, her friend exclaims. She tries to grab Moon’s wet paw… err hand… but Moon pulls back and hisses. Moon’s friend notices the whisker on her face and immediately raises her volume. “You still have that thing on your face! Moon! Take it off already!” Alarmed by her friend’s hand reaching her, Moon shoves her and shuts the door. Her friend cries “That was a prank. I glued my cat’s whisker on you!”. Hearing nothing, she continues: “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Please stop hating me.” Still nothing. Alone in the hallway, Moon’s friend cries, cries for the woman she met in fourth grade, tried kissing on prom night, had as her maid of honor, had felt growing apart in recent months. Her friend screams something and walks away.
In her apartment Moon smells a different kind of air, feels textures new and old, notices things that people can’t really see. Instinctively, she knocks down one of her planters, a charming rubber tree that her friend had gifted her. She immediately squats to urinate on it. As she effortlessly scrapes dirt to cover her scent, Moon looks around the room, many of the objects now foreign, uninteresting. Driven purely by an instinct so natural, so new, she leaps through her window.
Time passes, like it inevitably does in a concrete jungle. Construction comes and goes, people of all shapes and sizes traverse its streets in what seem like random patterns. Moon’s best friend finds herself walking down memory lane, walking the street in front of Moon’s old apartment. Her heart still lingered, bitter and hurt, now protected by a coat and a name tag spelling “Joanna”. Some time back she had been asked to clean up Moon’s apartment after the eviction, one of the many unjust expectations placed on her to tie up the life of her long-gone friend.
Without warning, Joanna takes a turn and decides to check out the back alley, her instinct whispering something vague, indecipherable. She gets there just in time. The garbage hasn’t been collected and there are several cats frolicking in the bins. They’re all likely looking for food, she thinks. One of them sees Joanna and alerts the rest. They all come out of the bin and start walking towards her, filled with curiosity. They’re all lovely, but one catches her eye. It’s small, silver-whiskered, its black hair beautiful with thin white stripes adorning the fluffy pelt that covers its slender body. The cat lays at her feet and turns over, showing its belly. Her belly, Joanna notices. She also notices a mark on the cat’s right shoulder, something blurry, like a ball with some string, she thinks. Joanna doesn’t make much of it, looks around and picks up the cat. “Do you have a name, pretty girl?” Incapable of answering, the cat quietly purrs and looks at her nametag. Joanna admires the cat for a few seconds in her arms. “You look like a ‘Luna’, don’t you? Yes, yes you do. I’m taking you home, little girl.”
Luna purrs and nestles into Joanna’s warm coat. They walk out of the alleyway.