I was typing away this evening, 9 p.m., when I heard the cat. I know her from last year, a beautiful tortoiseshell with white boots who comes into the courtyard outside my window and meows. I admire her from my window, and she looks up at me, enjoying the admiration. This time, I met her mistress, the concierge of the property next door. We chatted, I leaning over my window sill and she in her garden, about her lovely cat, who was adopted at one week old after her mother died and was not expected to live. Her name is Titi. I told her mistress how much I love it here in Paris and in the flat on the rue Claude Bernard, and that I will be back once I’ve gone home to visit my own, deeply disturbed cat.
Though the weather continues sublime, I know it’s fall, because the garden is shutting down and suddenly there’s so much