Petra pulled down the shade on the bedroom window, shutting out the street below, lit by the plaintive street lamp. She turned and walked across the room to the bed and sat on the edge, fretting the edge of her shirt with her fingers. Her eyes glanced nervously at the clock, but it hadn't changed since the last time she'd checked it.
"Time and time again," she muttered, cracking her knuckles. Her stomach growled. She sighed.
Getting up from the bed, she crossed the room and opened the door. She went down the dark hallway to the kitchen, and flicked on the light. The old cat put its ears back but didn't even bother to open his eyes to look up at her. She opened the refrigerator, and after rummaging for a while, pulled out a package of ham, a jar of mustard, and a jar of mayonnaise.
She set these things on the counter next to the refrigerator. She found herself humming to herself as she reached over to get the loaf of bread from were it sat next to the toaster. Setting the bread down, she reached up and pushed the 8-track tape into the player sitting on top of the refrigerator. With a squawk, 70s funk filled the tiny kitchen.
The old cat opened his eyes at the music, looked up at her balefully as she began assembling her sandwich. His whiskers twitched when she opened the package of ham, and he stood. He stretched out long, yawning, his tongue curling up in his mouth, then crossed the room to rub his back against her bare legs.
"You had your chance," she growls at him, "You chose to be your own cat tonight, remember?"
He continues to rub against her legs, purring loudly as she spreads mayonnaise and mustard on the bread and then layer the slices of ham. She replaces the lids on the jars, reseals the ham, and then pushing him out of the way with her foot, opens the refrigerator to return the sandwich fixings.
The cat meowls up her, but she just frowns and shakes her head. "No, I know I shifted tenses. I didn't mean to, it just happened, ok?"
The cat sighs. "Could we have just one scene that doesn't get meta?"
She takes a bite of the sandwich. "Hey, this is hard enough. Don't get surly."
"At least you get ham."
"At least you get to speak."
"Only until he decides to rein this in."
She takes the sandwich on a plate into the living room, shutting off the light in the kitchen behind her. She sits on the couch, curling her long legs underneath her, taking another bite of the sandwich. She doesn't bother to turn on the light, but sits there in the near dark, looking out the window at the trees lining the street outside, and the plaintive streetlight that flickers as the wind blows the branches, shaking the leaves and causing the light to shimmer and dance. She hasn't heard from him since that night he decided he needed to drive out and save her. She glances over at the clock on the VCR.
Still no time has passed.
