Cat 3.1

Four days before Labor Day, he told me loved me. I was leaving his apartment, heading to an opening shift at the store when he said the words. I was cautiously putting on my shoes, standing in his entryway, when I tripped and knocked over the side table and marble bowl holding his keys and loose odds and ends from his pockets. “Goddammit,” I could hear him scream from bed.

“I’m sorry,” I called back, frantically trying to collect the debris littered across the floor.

“You’re just like a puppy,” he yelled—still from the bedroom—groaning. “So cute. But always shitting on the rug when I least expect it.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I replied quietly, unsure how else to respond.

The bowl back in its rightful spot, its contents secure, I headed for the door, when he yelled my name.

“Yes?” I replied, my hand on the knob.

“I love you, idiot.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get out of here.”