Thinking about a story...this is prolly what's up on the creation list

“Amy,” Nina says, pounding on my door. “Are you dead?”

            I force myself up out of the sludge of deep sleep and glance at the clock. Five thirty. Too late to be waking up from a nap, which means I won’t sleep very well tonight, which is actually okay with me because it’s Friday and The Lede, my favorite investigative news show is on, and plus tonight they are featuring the Jessica Russell murder mystery in a small town in Tennessee, so of course I will be watching.

            I slouch over to the door and yank it open. There stands Nina, grumpy, soaked to the bone, clad all in black, as per usual, and her umbrella with two broken spines, so it’s not doing her any good at all, limp on one side like a man after a bad stroke.

            “Fuck’s sake,” Nina says, stepping inside past me and shaking out her umbrella vehemently so that water splatters all over my entryway. Tilapia, my cat, stretches luxuriantly from the warmth of the couch, where she has spent all afternoon curled up on top of me, purring, and I shrug at Nina, because she knows very well that my rule is you are not allowed to move when there is a cat sleeping on top of you. It’s the worst kind of bad luck. Tilapia skitters over to us, there in the foyer, and laps up some of the water that’s fallen from Nina’s umbrella. I squint at Tilapia, then back over my shoulder to her food and water bowls in the kitchen, which are, I notice, completely empty. It’s hard to figure the last time I might have fed her properly, which would explain the late-night meowing and why she’s been pissing on my favorite pair of boots.