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.
One Tuesday, after a brutal day of budget cuts, he came home to find the kitty absent. No mew. No muddy paw prints. No orange fur on the armchair. The silence was heavier than the usual silence. He checked the kitchen, the basement, the backyard. He walked the block, calling out a sound he’d never made before: "Here, kitty. Here, kitty." john persons kitty
John Persons knelt in the damp soil, ruining the knees of his two-hundred-dollar trousers. He did not hesitate. With trembling hands, he gently pried the plastic free. The kitty didn't run. She licked his thumb, her tiny tongue like a grain of sandpaper. John Persons did not know what to do with love