The Last Year of Life

Day 12. Bedroom. 2:20AM
I was looking over Mindy's brother's cat this weekend, they went out of town together. Went to slide some coins into some slot machines in New Jersey. The cat is named after a laxative he used to take when he was growing up. His hair is falling out, the man's not the cat's, and his skin is thin parchment that cracks with every step. He smokes more than life smokes and his laugh sounds like it was rattled straight from the sewers. He's 36 years old. Looks twice that. He takes her, his sister not his cat, out every now and again. He doesn't have anyone to spend his money on. He works as a waiter, actually one of those guys who orders around the waiters, like a graduated waiter. He claps his hands and they clean up the dirty plates in front of them. Then he twirls two bony fingers in a circle and they hoist the soiled trays on their shoulders and walk out in a single file line behind him. He knows where they are coming from, so he treats them like people. He follows the system. He is assimilated but it has not failed him. He's a good man. He is lonely. But so am I. The cat ripped apart the plastic tree in the corner of the room. It will have to be replaced.