Peter stood at the island, exactly where I would learn he always was at this hour. He held a mug of steaming coffee with a newspaper spread before him. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose, making him look like some batty professor whose reading glasses never remained in place. He was wearing a different faded T-shirt today, this one from what appeared to be a veterinary conference in Portland, and his hair was doing its usual thing, which was defying both gravity and intention simultaneously. Hiro lay at his feet, Potato slept on the couch, and General Tso lorded over everything from the top of the refrigerator.
Peter glanced up when I entered.
His eyes moved to my hair (post-sleep, fully vertical), to my shirt (inside out, which I had not noticed until this exact moment), then to the faint scratch on my forearm where the calico had expressed displeasure during her retrieval from the door.
“Kittens got out,” he said. It was not a question.
“The kittens got out.”
“The window.”
“The window.”
He nodded, as if this were a known variable in anongoing experiment. “They figured that out about two weeks ago. I’ve been meanin’ to fix the screen.”
“You could have mentioned that last night.”
“Figured you’d find out on your own.” He flipped a page of his newspaper. “Part of the experience.”
I stared at him. “Was that a joke?”
“I don’t joke before seven.” He took a sip of coffee. “There’s coffee in the pot. Mugs are above the sink. Don’t use the blue one.”
“What’s wrong with the blue one?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s mine.”
I poured coffee into a mug that was not blue and leaned against the counter.
The kitchen was fully visible now in a way it hadn’t been last night. The whiteboard on the fridge was the centerpiece. Up close it was even more impressive than I’d remembered.
It was color-coded, but not casually color-coded as though someone had grabbed whatever marker was handy. The board was meticulously color-coded, with a legend in the bottom corner that explained the system, as though the creator might someday forget which color belonged to which task. Green was for feeding times, blue for medications, red for veterinary appointments, and purple for behavioral notes. Each animal had its own row. The handwriting was small and precise and beautiful in theway that deeply organized things can be beautiful if you’re the kind of person who appreciates systems, which I was not, but I could recognize it was a quality that existed in other people.
It was a little like a gay man recognizing that a woman was beautiful.
We saw the beauty, we appreciated it, and we respected the work that went in maintaining it.
We just didn’t want to lick it.
Beneath the whiteboard, stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like the state of Texas, was a Post-it note. It was addressed to me.
Feeding schedule is vital. Hiro eats at 7 and 6. Potato eats at 7:30 and 6:30 (wet food only, his teeth are gone). General Tso eats when he decides to eat and not a moment before. Kittens get formula at 7, 12, and 6. Shortcake gets her meds with breakfast. If you’re going to be here during feeding times, you can help. If not, stay out of the way.
— P
I read it twice, then pulled a pen from the cup on the counter (Peter had a cup of pens on the counter, organized by type and color, because of course he did) and wrote on a fresh Post-it from the pad besidethe fridge.
Good morning to you, too. I would love to help with feeding. Please note that Princess Consuela eats at 8 and 6 sharp and will begin screaming fifteen minutes beforehand to remind everyone of this. Consider this your warning.
— B
I stuck it below Peter’s note.
Peter looked at the fridge, read my note, then looked at me.
“She starts screamin’ fifteen minutes before she eats?”
“Every day.”
