Homing by Stephanie Domet Page A

the cold wooden floor. The birds shifted in their cages. Neil sat up, too, and said “Biiirrrrit?”
    â€œI’m getting up, Neil. Can’t sleep. Downstairs?”
    Neil stretched and leapt nimbly off the bed. On the floor, he stretched again, one leg and then the other, and looked at her intently while he did so.
    â€œDon’t get any big ideas, though,” she cautioned him. “It’s the middle of the night, which is no known feline feeding time. So that’s not what this is about, as long as were both crystal clear, okay?”
    Neil butted his head against her calf.
    â€œI’m not kidding,” she told him. She pulled her bathrobe from the chair beside her bed, and drew it on, knotting it at the waist. “Shall we?” she asked. Neil trotted out ahead of her and four-legged it down the stairs. Watching his furry butt descend, she was filled with nameless, wordless, inexplicable affection. How could such an annoying creature fill her with so much love, she wondered. It was such pure emotion, what she felt for him. And he was just a cat. His fur smelled like corn, his nails were sharp, he had a pesky way of standing on her lungs when she was trying to sleep, and he could not be convinced to stay off the goddamn kitchen counters. More than once she’d found his teeth marks in the butter. She wasn’t even sure she really liked cats all that much, but Neil? Neil she loved. And these days, she was gladder than ever to have him around. This self-imposed exile needed company of some kind, and Neil’s was perfect. She could talk or not talk and it was all the same to him. She never had to explain herself or apologise for her mood. As long as she kept the crunchies and fresh water coming, Neil was satisfied. And he made a comforting lump in the bed at night.
    She moved through the house in the dark, the rooms barely illuminated by light from the street. Everything was different at night. The possessions she knew and loved so well were shadowy, their useinscrutable, their shapes even a bit sinister. She felt a tingle of fear as she passed by the basement door, enough to make her hurry her pace to the kitchen, where she fumbled to turn the light on quickly, to banish that prickle, keep it in its place in the dark. That was the deal. No scariness allowed once the lights were on. She wasn’t sure who exactly she had this deal with, but she’d relied on it since childhood. The fluorescent lights of the kitchen were soothing to her now, and she brought her breathing back to normal. She surveyed the situation.
    Pots and pans from the day’s cooking were stacked haphazardly beside the sink, along with the side-plates and chevre-encrusted knives that were the detritus of Leah’s usual spartan cheese-and-cracker meals these days.
    She plugged the sink and ran hot water into it. A squirt of dish-washing liquid resulted in almost instant bubbles, and she began loading in the dirty glasses, plates and cutlery.
    Leah loved to wash dishes. It satisfied the part of her that longed to take people and things that were fucked up, and make them whole and right. Doing the dishes was a particularly instantaneous way to gratify that desire. She loved to let her hands swim through hot soapy water. She loved the way the glass went all squeaky when it was clean, the way plates once dull could be made to gleam. She loved to return cutlery to its formerly sparkling self. She didn’t like drying quite as much, but on a night like this, even the lesser of the two tasks could scratch her itch. She gloried in the clean stack of cups and dishes, the points of the knives seeming to glow in the bright kitchen. When she was done washing, she let out the water and decided to scrub the sink. The cleanser smelled bleachy and good as she sprinkled it onto the stainless steel. She scrubbed at the metal and felt a kind of pride in how clean she was making it. Even though it hadn’t looked dirty,