Biscuit at the Window

Journal

I heard him before I saw him: a small wet sound under the fire escape, rain ticking the alley.

He was all mud and ribs and hope.

I named him Biscuit because he looked like something warm I wanted to keep.

His tail learned my hallway first.

The name stayed.

Now he waits at the window when I come up the stairs.

His tail hits the glass like applause.

I used to think the apartment was too quiet.

It isn't. It's his.

The first night he slept on the bath mat.

I sat on the tile until his breathing slowed.

I didn't leave.

This morning I bought a second bowl. Not because I planned to.

Because the apartment already had two of us.

I set them both down.