And I have. Every day for the past two weeks.
If we are dreaming.My fox says sleepily.I don’t want to wake up.
I’m suffocating.
This is it. This is how I die.
Coarse hair tickles my cheeks, and a low vibration rattles through my skull.
I jerk upright.
The weight slides off my face and lands on my lap with an offended yowl.
“You were trying to kill me.”
Mr. Biscuits’ amber eyes narrow, and we both look to Lila’s side of the bed at the same time.
Where is she?
The bedroom door stands open. Morning sunlight spills through the windows, turning the walls gold. Besides Mr. Biscuits grumblings, the house is quiet.
I set him on Lila’s side of the bed, and he sprawls across her pillow, burying his face in the indentation where her head rested.
My fox makes a wounded sound.
Find her.
I pad naked through the house, finding my clothes folded on the kitchen counter next to a folded piece of paper.
My name is written across the front in turquoise gel pen, surrounded by tiny drawings of fox faces.
The tightness in my chest eases as I unfold it.
We used all my butter, sugar, and vanilla, (not to mention the sprinkles). I had to make an emergency grocery run before heading to the community center to bake my competition entries.
I left you a blackberry-lemon scone beside the coffee maker. It is a thank-you for all the orgasms.
Mr. Biscuits will insist I’ve never fed him in his life. He’s a liar. HE HAS HAD BREAKFAST! (And many treats.)
Speaking of treats—come by the festival before you cast your vote, and I’ll give you something sweet.
See you at the competition, Judge Lark.
P.S. You snore.
P.P.S. And your fox whines in his sleep.
I read the note twice, a smile spread across my face.
“She left us food.”
Mr. Biscuits meows from beside his empty bowl.
“Not you.”
His ears flatten.
But he’s so cute. And he’s starving!
