Seymour tried the front door. Locked. He knew there had been a spare key but couldn’t remember where it was kept. He tried under the mat; under a potted geranium, white, a begonia, orange; looked for a fake rock in the garden but they were all real.
He peered into a dusty window. Shapes of furniture, art on the wall, all of it dark, unrecognizable, like the reflection in the glass wearing a hat. He turned around quickly. No one there. Considered breaking the window with a real rock. Then what?
Dried muddy footprints on the porch. Were they his? From long ago? A Jehovah’s Witness? A salesman? A thief? Seymour felt something against his lower leg. A soft white and grey cat. A Tuxedo. Like his tuxedo. The cat dodged his hand when he stooped to pet it but didn’t run away. Seymour smiled.
The cat came in for another rub against his leg. Sensation traveled up Seymour’s shin. He stood perfectly still. The cat looked up at him and walked to the backyard. Seymour followed. They came to a field of wild grass and small waving sunflowers, mesquite trees, and a single dying pecan.
The sun was setting, turning the mountains purple, the sky orange and gold. Such a beautiful ending to a day. The house was far away now. He hadn’t realized how far they’d walked. He looked for the cat who sat regally in the grass behind him. Cats will only travel so far. Two Tuxedo figures remained in the field as light dimmed and a white moon rose, partial eclipse in a perfectly whole night, the desert vast and never ending to Seymour’s eye.
Bio: Guy Biederman
