The Lady Of Cats and Books

I was scrutinizing, awed, the titles of the books that packed the ceiling-high shelves which spanned her entire wall when she spoke.

“There’s this young couple that comes by every Friday night. They just stand outside, looking at the house, holding hands,” she said.

I saw in my mind’s eye, the two standing underneath the single streetlight that illuminated the forgotten backstreet. The feline overlords of the alley would saunter about lazily, pause to afford curious gazes to their guests, then go on unperturbed to curl up at one of the many nooks and crannies. The night would announce its arrival with the whisper of a zephyr, rousing the scent of approaching womanhood and thoughts of warmth and tenderness. Hand in hand, he held her closer; love in love, hope in heart.

“That is so sweet, but yet at the same time so sad,” I replied.

“Yes. Most of them wouldn’t be able to afford anything more than a HDB flat,” she said plainly.

The lack of condescension in her voice touched me. Her humanity was palpable, and her dignity for not judging those who those who did not live as well as she did, respectable. She gave me a hug when I was leaving, and for the first time in a long while, I felt humbled, and thankful that I found an unlikely friend in the unlikeliest of places.