Stalker

The ever-present sound of rain muffles passersby steps and their hurried apologies when they bump into each other, shielded and blinded as they are by their umbrellas.

 Walls are morphing into shiny amphibians with moist skin. Dampness advances unchallenged and reaches my core. I shudder.

I feel a cold breath on my neck. Staying still is not an option.

I move in the dark. I hear a noise. I look at a moving shadow out of the corner of my eye.

I DO have a stalker.

I tiptoe, swiftly and silently, as I try to find a lit space.

I turn on the light and look at my feet. Mrs. Cat jumps and freezes, not knowing exactly what to expect, if  a scolding or a cuddle. I produce both.

I allow her to stalk me to the bathroom, to the kitchen, to the room where the dehumidifier is, to the kitchen again, to the room where Mr. Cat usually sleeps, to the other room where Mr. Cat sleeps as a second option, to the sitting room (where I finally find Mr. Cat) and to my bedroom.

Last time I saw Mr. Cat he was quite engaged following a raindrop falling on a window and he was not half as interested as Mrs. Cat is in me.