A few minutes of alertness, having slept placidly, Moon starts her morning routine. She sets the coffee timer, messily puts away the food scraps on her counter, 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? A whisker! It’s in there good, there’s no mistaking it. The mirror confirms it—it’s long, silvery, pointy, a physical manifestation of wild possibilities. Not itchy or foreign, but a part of her she’s thankful to have grown. She loves how well it goes with the relatively fresh yarn ball tattoo on her right shoulder.
Moon is overjoyed and prances around the room 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 family, her 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.
Her drinking out of saucers, eating raw fish, brushing herself to trim her black hair and imaginary fluff, walking around on all fours—all of this finally paid off. Moon’s celebration is abruptly interrupted by a knock on her door. It’s her best friend, asking to be let in. “Moon, let me in. We’re worried about you!” Moon opens the door. “Thank goodness you’re ok. Why aren’t you picking up your phone? Everyone’s been worried sick for you,” her friend exclaims. Moon just stares blankly. Her friend continues: “I know we’ve had our differences but I miss you. We miss you.” Instinctively, Moon licks her hand and starts pawing at her hair. “Listen, Moon. You gotta stop. I called your work and they told me that you were let go a week ago. Nobody has seen you since and you haven’t really gotten back to any of us. Actually, can you stop doing that?” Her friend tries to grab the wet paw… err hand… but Moon pulls back and hisses. Her friend notices Moon’s whisker and immediately raises her volume. “You still have that thing on your face! Moon! That was a prank. I glued my cat’s whisker onto you. Take it off already!” Not knowing what to do, Moon shoves her friend and shuts the door, leaving her friend crying in the hallway, crying for the woman whom she had met in fourth grade, had gone to countless summer camps with, had been to her wedding, 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 regular people can’t really see. Instinctively, she knocks down one of her planters, a beautiful rubber tree that her best friend had gifted her. She immediately squats to urinate on it. She looks around her 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 blanket its streets. Moon’s best friend finds herself walking down memory lane, walking the street in front of Moon’s apartment. She decides to take a turn and check out the back alley, her instinct whispering to her something vague, indecipherable. She gets there just in time. The garbage hadn’t been collected and there are several cats just frolicking in the bins, likely looking for food. One of them sees her and alerts the rest. They all come out of the bin and start walking towards her, filled with curiosity. They’re all beautiful but one catches her eye. It’s small, silvery, its hair is beautiful with silver and black stripes adorning the fluffy pelt that covers its entire body. The cat lays on her feet and turns over, showing its belly, her belly. Moon’s friend notices a mark on her right shoulder, something blurry, kind of like a yarn ball, she thinks. She doesn’t make much of it, looks around and picks up the cat. “Do you have a name, pretty one?“ She admires the cat for a few seconds in her arms. “You look like a Luna, don’t you? That’s Spanish for moon. Yes, yes you do. I’m taking you home, little girl.”
Luna purrs and nestles into the nice woman’s arms. They walk out of the alleyway.