At My Feet
A day after my birthday she left it outside: by the bedroom door, soggy with summer rain, curled like a comma, with a yowl. A present—better late than never. It lay there, soaking up more rain, iridescent with a hint of red. That night as I slept she brought me another and left it on the bed. Small as an ink spot, a morning surprise. Two days later she announced her gift as I lay On the couch watching Woody Allen wishing I had his brilliance. This time the little thing was still alive, so when she dropped it in front of me it ran behind the speakers and then...
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