She walks over to the couch where I am sitting with my current "usual" breakfast (one cup of Greek yogurt with half-a-cup of blueberries, a glass of V8 juice, and a banana), and looks up at me with wide, stricken eyes. Her little pink lips barely part, letting forth a tiny, plaintive "meaw?" and then another, louder, when the first doesn't solicit the reaction she was looking for.
"I don't know what you want," I say, but this doesn't placate her.
A truck drives down Seventh Avenue in front of our building, engine roaring, and she looks worriedly out the window at the slate gray day, then back to me, demanding some solution I don't have, to problems I don't understand.
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