The morning’s crisp air,
That gave birth to all the snow;
Fights with the sun’s warmth.
About the Creator
Lap Cat
My nose is dripping, and Delia is tracing her fingers through my hair. Her husband is shirtless by the microwave, heating up leftovers from New Year's Eve. In 60 seconds, I'll be shoving mouthfuls of risotto between my quivering lips like a child and picking at semi-stale dinner rolls. Then, I'll pass my plate to one of their three Tabby cats (whom I can never tell apart) and let him/her/them (?) lick it clean.
By Erin Latham Sheaabout 20 hours ago in Fiction
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