A Moment with Emil

Sybil is the sort of ponderer who thinks herself into perpetual loneliness. She observes so closely that her own existence seems without root. Within social settings, it isn’t so much of “What could I do?” as it is “What should I do?”. There is an innate requirement of self-preservation enveloping her, even when nothing is amiss. Isolation tends to be her nature. She’ll never grow close to another of her kind because they never do, unless they are born alongside; alas, she is an only child. She’ll tolerate most, occasionally finding intrigue and joy within mundane nature, and sometimes she’ll get as close to loving someone as she can. Her seat in between “Nothing Matters” and “Everything Matters” will exhaust her forever (but it is important to note that it is a space that belongs to her).

            On an early March morning she sips her coffee and flicks a cigarette while she wishes she could be painting instead of waiting to leave for work. She thinks to herself that, It’s silly how I only ever crave painting when I cannot. Atop her counter sits a small cat, brown and male. He is her heart, her pride, her treasure. This early ceremony is vital to both: Sybil drinking her coffee after getting dressed while Emil watches the cup before she cleans it. She turns to him and (performatively) sighs.

            “I suppose you’ll lounge around today,” she muses, dipping her fingertip into the melting whipped cream. Emil devotedly meows at her, raising his chin. She smiles and offers the treat, which the cat gently cleans from her finger. Knowing he’ll expect more (even though he never receives more), Sybil sets him on the kitchen floor. He meows again, with a slightly higher tone, before sitting at her feet, and his tail sways twice. In ten minutes, Sybil will have to leave for work. Departing from the sanctity of her home is always distressing for her. Nothing less than the promise of return can make the experience tolerable.