I pick him up and hold him in front of the fridge. A ragged winter moth has fumbled its way inside and plastered itself against the brushed aluminum. His nose twitches, short wifts of air jetting from the folds of his nostrils.
(more) He sticks his nose too close. The moth flies away. He flinches, looks distracted for a moment, then goes back to staring at the refrigerator door. A mind used to observing things as they flit in and out of existence without ever getting a firm grasp on them.
I put him down. His claws clack across the cold tile. He dips his face part-way down into a plastic dish and laps up a few mouthfuls of dingy water. His heads lifts. Rivulets run down the locks of hair that frame his snout and pool at the tips, before dropping to the floor in an unceremonious, ragged delta before his feet.
He makes his way to the open front door and peers out at nothing in particular. Perhaps just to see if the world is still there, waiting, just the other side of the nose-smeared pane of glass.(less)