Protest

Yoko stared out unblinking from the closet for two days. Eventually I coaxed her into the living room, then onto my lap. You were there like a shadow, grinding coffee beans, hurrying for the 8:13 train, writing social media posts about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

On Saturday the electric music of cicadas shimmered through the streets, and Yoko developed the courage to explore the shopfront. She sashayed past the register, through the poetry section, and into the window display, where she stationed herself atop a copy of Eckhart Tolle’s new bestseller, like a sentinel guarding Sydney Road. Her gargoylean presence soothed me.

The day tumbled into evening, and I heard your keys clink in the lock, the thump of your muddy boots on the doorstep, the sibilance of the shower. I rose with a sigh to flip the sign to closed, before ascending the rattletrap staircase to the roof. The Parkville chimneys gazed at me. I imagined the ocean spilling over, flooding the streets, swallowing the brick houses, leaving their chimneys to protrude like the periscopes of submarines.

You appeared at the top of the stairs to break your silence, your clothes grubby from collecting rubbish on the beach, your hands trembling the way they had when the April heatwave had persisted unnervingly.

“Cats kill native wildlife,” you announced. I could tell you were counting to five on your exhales.

“I’ll keep her in at night.”

“Bullshit.”

“Responsibility isn’t all heroic gestures like starting fucking NGOs, Huey. I’m keeping my promise to Sylvia.”

Embers flickered in your eyes.

 Before long, I was inducted unwillingly into a covert cat-worshipping society. A linen-clad social worker entered the shop to lecture me about Melbourne’s vast colonies of stray cats, then proceeded to return weekly, offering unsolicited advice about cat kidney health.

On her fourth visit, she brandished a homemade cat toy – a cluster of purple feathers and miniature bells attached artlessly to a stick. I couldn’t remember the last time I had received a handmade gift and found the gesture uncomfortably moving.

My fateful mistake was leaving the avian toy on the kitchen bench as I ate a rushed lunch of canned tuna at the sink.

I awoke the next morning from dreaming of a blizzard, and instead of your scruffy hair on the pillow, I found a jumble of feathers, bells, and splinters, and a note that read: YOU’RE TRAINING HER TO HUNT BIRDS. The back of my neck grew hot. Upon finding you snoring on the couch, I contemplated whether to splash ice water on your face, or blast Nine Inch Nails through the speakers, but I didn’t want to wake Yoko, who lay curled up benevolently against you in the dusty morning sun.

Nicole Butcher writes poetry, prose, and music. Her writing explores the ecstasy of nature, intersectional feminism, and the raw edges of human psychology. She draws energy from her spiritual practice, community circus, and from her work as a language teacher. Nicole’s work has been published by Meniscus and Reflex Fiction, and she recently won Raconteur’s Shorter Story Contest.