Catfood

J. and I constantly mis-hear one another’s words. We go with it, though, as if the words we think we hear make sense, which is less exhausting then continually asking, “What?” Our mis-hearings have the momentum of a natural process, like a migration. Only instead of birds, it’s words. Meaning isn’t lost, but looks different in the tropics than in northern climes.

“Aagh!” I groan. “I need caffeine.”

“Catfood?” J. asks.

 “Yes. Pouring myself a cup right now.”

 “Pour me one, too.”