we're in the garage. on the couch. in the garage. that is there.
but we met on the plane. "i'm going around the world."
"i'm going home."
"can i visit?"
"sure?"
we're there, on the couch, i'm closer to the house, she's toward the street.
"i don't even know you're name."
"samantha, you surely do?"
"no?"
"katja" she says, the german accent explicit to my ear.
"katja." i repeat. remembering something from somewhere.
she sits up, twists, falls down.
i'm buried under her, and i feel her arms wrap around my body, pulling me closer. "what was that?"
the garage door slides down. the guy who does...stuff? rests a bike under the door to prop it open a few feet from the floor. "something's happened."
a bunch of cats flood into the garage.
katja slinks up onto a perch next to the couch, back arched against the gunshots we're aware of outside.
i gasp, and feel her paw at my face from behind me.
--
and then i wake up, worried about my dear katja. i hope we share a dream again, as i think we've done in the past.
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