John Persons was not a man given to whimsy. His suits were charcoal gray, his ties were navy blue, and his lawn was mowed in mathematically precise stripes. He lived at 42 Maple Drive, a house that looked like every other house on the block, except for the fact that it was marginally cleaner.
So he maintained the fiction. "It's not a pet," he told his neighbor, Mrs. Gable, who watched him through her lace curtains. "It's a pest control solution." john persons kitty
John Persons did not know what to do with love. He knew about quarterly reports, about mortgage rates, about the proper way to fold a fitted sheet. But this scruffy, purring thing that rubbed against his shins while he made his morning coffee? It unnerved him. John Persons was not a man given to whimsy
He just held on.
He never called it by a name. To the world, it was simply "John Persons' kitty." A stray he’d found shivering behind his recycling bin three winters ago, a matted ball of orange fur with one torn ear and eyes the color of sour apple candy. He had intended to call animal control. Instead, he had opened a can of tuna. So he maintained the fiction
His one, unspoken secret was the cat.
He carried her inside. He didn't put her down. He sat in his "no cats" chair, cradling her against his chest, feeling her tiny heartbeat thrum against his own. For the first time in his adult life, John Persons did not think about being efficient, or proper, or clean.