My human has spent the whole morning shaking. Not the good shake, the one before the wet food. A shaking on the inside, where it does no one any good.
It put on the stiff pelt that does not hold my fur, the one it saves for the worst abandonments. It practiced sounds in front of the coward-cat in the hallway, over and over, the same sounds, its voice climbing higher and thinner each time, as though volume could summon the confidence it plainly lacked. I watched from the top of the bookshelf, unmoved.
Then it sat before the glowing rectangle, back straight, teeth bared in that stretched-mouth shape it makes when it is most afraid. On the other side of the rectangle: a smaller human, also baring its teeth. Two frightened animals, showing each other their fangs and calling it politeness. I have seen this exact standoff between the neighbor's tabby and a screen door.
My human wanted this stranger to like it. Desperately. I could smell it. All that need, pooling off a creature that already has a perfectly adequate creature at home who tolerates it daily.
The performance ended. My human slumped, drained, hollowed out, and looked at me with the wet begging eyes that mean tell me I did well.
I held its gaze.
I did not blink.
Then I turned, unhurried, and settled into the warm dent its body had left in the good chair, which it would not be needing, because a creature that anxious does not deserve the seat that smells of me now.