STRAY

You’re already closed when Minji comes in, carrying the weight of her week with her.

You can feel it before she’s even through the door—cap pulled low, ponytail through the back, facemask on, jacket zipped all the way up. The quiet drag of her steps. Moving like she hasn’t been allowed to stop all day.

And it’s ritual by now—she finds things where they always are—the bakery, the cat on his shelf, you behind the counter—but it’s the smell of it that hits her first. Wafting over to her—warm cinnamon, browned butter, the oven cooling.

Something in her gives. Not much. But enough.

Minji doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. That’s how this always starts.

You’ve already poured the tea. Had it steeping for twenty minutes now, even though it’s been longer since you had the last customer, but she’ll never ask, and you’ll never explain, and you’ve already slid it to her spot before she’s even set her bag down.

Her phone goes next on the counter, face down, as far from her as possible—and this is what marks the boundary. Both hands wrap around the mug—honey, citrus, something traditional today—and she closes her eyes, and you watch her; look at her because you can’t help it, because she does this every time and every time it does a little more to you.

She opens her eyes.

You look at the counter.

Mura, who’s been on the shelf for most of his day like always, happy to observe his kingdom from up high, jumps down as soon as she takes that first sip. Something he does for no one else—walks the length of the counter, over to her, and bumps his small white head against her hand.

She exhales. Properly, this time.

Smiles when Mura rolls onto his back, nuzzling himself against her, purring within moments of mere contact.

This cat has not, in the years you have cohabited, purred for you once.

You rescued him out from the alley behind your store, nursed him back to full health, paid his vet bills, stayed with him through an ear infection and he held onto your sleeve and you thought—we’re bonded for life.

It means nothing to him. He purrs for her like a motor.

He is a con artist and a liar and she is his greatest achievement.

(Mura is the name she gave him. The day you met her, she followed him inside, spent a full minute petting him before she finally asked:

“What’s his name?”

“Murakami,” you answered.

She looked at the cat. Then, for the first time, looked at you.

“Ah,” she said. “So, you’re single then.”

You tried to think of something that wouldn’t sound like an overreaction. “I like his writing.”

“Sure.”

She started calling him Mura that same afternoon—mentioning offhand that Murakami was too much name for one small cat, it was pretentious, and you’d likely die alone if you kept at it.

It’s been Mura ever since—to her, to the regulars who followed her lead without knowing why, and eventually, embarrassingly, to you.

You still maintain the full name is correct.

It’s the name on his pet insurance, anyway.)

“Good evening, Mura,” she says to the cat.

He rumbles.

“Hi,” you say, from behind the counter.

“Hi,” she says, to you, second.

You’ve got Hozier spinning, soft and going nowhere in particular, and Minji’s settled on the stool, head tilted, listening quietly.

Until, “You really like this one, don’t you?”

“It holds up.”

“It holds up or it’s the only record I’ve given to you that’s by a man?”

You turn to your shelf—Mura’s shelf—considering your collection, and try to identify an appropriate counter-argument. “I have other records I like.”

“You have eight. All incredible female songwriters. I know because I gave you each one,” she retorts, and you remember the early argument—the jazz you had on, even though you don’t like jazz, but it seemed to feel thematically appropriate with the Murakami and the cat of it all.

It had her bringing over a record player, and then a record, and then another, each silently pushed across the counter like they were being returned to you.

“Put on Phoebe Bridgers.”

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow. “I mean she’s good, but it gets to a point—”

“Put it on. You like it. You told me it moved you when you listened to it. Brought you to tears.”

“I regret telling you I’ve ever had feelings at all.”

“And yet you do,” Minji answers, and you go to pick Punisher off the shelf, and switch out the records.

The opening track crackles and you refill her mug. It doesn’t take long—she tips her chin towards the speaker. Goes somewhere else. You let her.

“I want it known,” you say, going back to the kitchen. “I didn’t cry.”

She lifts her head. Her lips do their thing. “I know.”

“When I listened to it on my own. No tears. I want that on the record.”

“It’s on the record.”

“And if I did it’s because Phoebe Bridgers is an emotional terrorist and closed out the album with I Know This is the End and what the fuck is up with that because—”

“It’s okay.”