The sun shines golden across the bed, warming my fur in stripes of heat. I curl a little tighter, nose buried in my tail, listening to her write. The pencil scratches, scrawls and runs across the page, like a mouse burying through dry leaves. Every now and then she stops and sighs, wind in the leaves, and the mouse is quiet. Sometimes she reaches across to me and strokes my fur. She speaks quietly to me and I purr, feeling comfortable right here on the rumpled sheets. Then she picks up her pencil again and the mouse scurries away, carrying words across the white page, slowly covering it with letters, making a pattern of grey against white, leaves in the courtyard. I would catch words for her if I could, but she doesn’t wait for me, she writes and sighs, or even laughs. I can feel her moods rising and falling. Sometimes she sends out fear, sometimes joy, sometimes confusion. But at the end when she puts down her pencil, she stretches and sighs in contentment or in some kind of release and then I know that she’s about to shake me off the sheets and make the bed, so I leave. I have other things to do, after all.