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It’s Okay

P.A. Lynch

The old man sits in his chair at the back of the house. He taps ash onto the small wooden table, missing slightly, then pulls the blanket tighter around his legs. Smoke softens the edges of the room.
At the edge of his vision, a familiar shape moves. He turns.
Nothing. Just a shadow.

This was where he first saw her.
She stalked in from the left, thin and taut with caution. Her fur was black all over, except for a small white tuft at her chest.
The old man leaned forward. Her bright yellow eyes snapped towards him as she jumped back, then turned to observe.
He rose and went to the fridge. When he returned, he slid the glass door ajar and placed a small bowl of fish on the step, then retreated to his chair.
She looked between him and the bowl. Slow and low to the ground, she approached, sniffed the food, and ate. She made quick work of the fish, then slipped away into the dark.
The next morning she was there again. Their routine began.
Each day he placed the bowl a little nearer to himself. Each day she came a little closer.
He held the food in his hand and reached it out along the ground. She approached, slow and careful. She stretched a paw towards it.
For a moment, neither moved.
He flinched.
She struck—two quick swipes—then ran.
She stopped outside. He looked at her—then at his hand. Blood ran down the side.
‘It’s okay,’ he said.
He placed the food back in the bowl and nudged it towards her with his foot. The blood found the cuff of his shirt.
‘It’s okay,’ he said again.
She entered and began to eat.
The old man stopped reaching towards her. He placed the bowl down between them and sat back in his chair.
One day, he held the food out in his hand again. She came closer this time. She ate from his hand. He felt the wet, leathery touch of her tongue against his skin.
After that, he mostly left the food in the bowl. She began to brush against his leg as he prepared it, meowing, impatient.
As she ate, she paused often, lifting her head to watch the door.
‘It’s okay,’ he said.
She returned to eating.
Sometimes she would leave suddenly. The space beside him emptied.
He stayed where he was.

The old man draws on his cigarette and looks out through the glass.
A robin lands on the step, head tilted. He stubs out his cigarette and begins to rise. The robin flies away.
He sits back down.
His eyes rest on the empty bed, still holding her shape.

The cold settled in. She began to stay inside longer. She bumped against the glass door when she wanted to be fed, leaving smudges and small clouds of her hair.
He made her a small bed and placed it near the door, which at first she ignored. Later, she climbed onto it and stayed there for hours. From then on, she returned to it.
She lay in the bed across from him, sideways on, paws tucked beneath her like a loaf. Sometimes he spoke to her. She watched him and blinked slowly.
He could move a little now without her leaving. If he tried to close the door, she ran.
So he left it open.
At night she would disappear. He never knew where she went. He just let her be.
Another day, after she had eaten, she circled behind his chair and lay down beside him. She faced the door, and he heard her purring.
After a while she yawned, stretched, brushed against his hand, and went outside.
From then on, she followed him.
She waited outside the bathroom.
At night she came to the bedroom—curled up beside him, on his wife’s side of the bed.
He noticed her fondness for high places and put up a small shelf in the kitchen.
She filled out under his care.
When the weather warmed, they sat outside. He placed a cushion on one of the chairs for her.
He hung up his wife’s bird feeder.
Dug out his old radio. Lyric FM.
They sat together.
Birds flickered through the garden, clouds sliding slowly overhead.
In the sun, her fur revealed brown beneath the black. She lay stretched along the ground.
She closed her eyes, then opened them to him. They were golden. She blinked slowly. Her nose twitched as she sniffed the air.
He watched her groom herself. Paw across her face—then down along the curve of her body.
Sometimes she stalked birds in the garden, her body low and still. He watched her watching them.
She climbed up onto the high wall in the backyard, under the dark tangle of the thicket, scratching herself against the low branches. She perched there and kept her eyes on him as he drank his coffee and smoked.
He sat beneath her gaze, as if there was nothing more to be done.
One evening, at dusk, she went outside.
She did not return.
He stood waiting at the glass for a long time.
He left the door open.

It has been two weeks.
The old man sits at the back of the house in his chair. He sees his own faded reflection in the glass.
Strands of her hair cling to the other side.
He looks away.
The robin lands on the step.
He does not move.
He just watches.