It was 10:04 a.m. and I was still in bed.
This, according to my invisible cat, constituted bed gluttony.
“Karen,” Bizness said, voice dripping with disdain. “I don’t mean to be rude—oh wait, yes I do—but at what point do you plan on extricating yourself from that cocoon of stale sheets?”
I groaned, burrowed deeper, and pulled the comforter over my head as I muttered, “I’ve told you a thousand times, my name is not Karen.”
“Do you not know what time it is, Karen? We have things to do today. Rooms to roam. Toes to attack. Light beams to chase. Existential crises to spiral into. Get. Up.”
A lump shifted beneath the quilt, which may have been me or possibly just a very large pile of emotional exhaustion. Hard to say.
“Do not touch my toes, cat,” I warned.
“Karen…” he said, hopping up and pacing the mattress like a lawyer preparing his closing argument. “You are being lugubrious. That means you look sad and dismal.”
“I know what it means.”
“Not to mention your hair currently smells like dryer lint and french fries. Frankly, Karen, it’s disgusting.”
The bed creaked and I heard the unmistakable thwap of his paws hitting the floor.
I sniffed, but said nothing.
“Fine. Be that way,” he huffed. “Blubber away. Blubber blubber blubberation. Is that what this is? A full-scale blubberation?”
I poked my head out. “That’s not a word.”
“It is now. I’ve decided it’s the official term for when your weeping becomes overly dramatic and mildly inconvenient to others—namely me.”
“Bizness…”
“No, no, don’t try to defend your behavior. The sighing. The whimpering. The staring blankly at the wall like a child whose mother just turned off the television. I expect better from you, Karen.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Well, that’s just rude,” he said, sounding genuinely offended. “Do you talk to all your spiritual advisors like this?”
“You are not my spiritual advisor.”
“I most certainly am. I’ve read Eat, Pray, Love twice and once, Karen, I even slept on a salt lamp.”
I flopped deeper into my pillow. “I am deeply missing my friend, Bizness. That’s all. Just… let me miss my friend who has left this earth.”
A pause. Then the faint sound of tiny paws padding across the carpet.
I felt the mattress dip beside me. Then the gentle plunk of his body landing, cat-loaf style, directly on top of the comforter. Right over my chest. Just heavy enough to feel like a judgmental paperweight. Or a weighted blanket with opinions.
Then there was quiet. Blessed, beautiful quiet.
Until I dared to sniffle.
“Karen…”
“Yes?”
“If you get tears on me, I’ll be consulting a lawyer.”
I laughed. Just a little.
“I’m serious,” he added. “This is vintage invisibility fur. Very absorbent. Very expensive.”
I reached a hand up to where I felt his weight. He didn’t move.
“You’re a nuisance,” I whispered.
“You’re a drama queen.”
“You made up a word.”
“You made up an entire blog and blame things on me.”
Touché.
We lay there for a while, neither of us speaking. The sun peeked in through the window, and somehow, I didn’t feel quite as sad with a snarky cat parked on my ribcage.
Eventually, Bizness yawned. “Fine. You may have the day to wallow. But tomorrow, I expect you to put on pants and emotionally re-engage with society. Or at least with me.”
“I make no promises.”
“Fair. But I shall continue to lie on your keyboard until morale improves.”
And sure enough, ten minutes later, when I finally got up and shuffled to my desk, I reached for the keyboard—only to be met with an invisible paw batting at my fingers like I’d just trespassed on sacred territory. I yelped and flailed backward. “Bizness!” I shouted into the empty air. “You’re blocking the keyboard!”
A smug silence hovered.
“Get off!”
Another invisible swat.
“Oh, come on! I’m trying to write!”
“Then write around me,” came his disembodied voice. “I’m emotionally supporting you from this exact spot. Because, Karen, I am fully aware that grief is messy, and love leaves a crater.”
I leaned my elbow on my desk. That had to be one of the most beautiful and profound things the cat had ever said to me.
Who knew comfort could be invisible, fluffy, full of sass—and sprawled across the space where the writing begins.