It was a balmy September night. The kind of night when the moon hangs low like a fat ball of cheese in the sky and the humans are finally asleep, leaving the windows cracked open just enough to invite magic inside… and moths.
That’s when I saw him.
Bernard.
He fluttered in with the grace of a half-drunk fairy, circling the lamp like it owed him money. His wings were patchy, his body slightly crooked, and he had the erratic flying style of someone who’d recently bumped into a screen door. In short: he was perfect.
Our eyes met.
(Well, I have slitted pupils and he had those compound googly ones, but still—it was a moment.)
He flitted. I crouched.
He soared. I leapt.
We danced.
I did a mid-air pirouette that would've made a ballet instructor weep into her espresso. Bernard spun like a dusty little helicopter. I landed on the back of the couch with all the elegance of a furry ninja. He dive-bombed a lampshade like a tiny daredevil with a death wish.
We were made for each other.
The night pulsed with electricity.
The moonlight hit my whiskers just right.
Bernard paused mid-flight, hovered… and then, I—
…I…
Well.
I ATE HIM.
It was an accident! My paw went up, my mouth opened, he zigged when he should’ve zagged, and suddenly… Bernard was a crunchy, powdery memory on my tongue.
I froze.
Stared at the lamp.
Gagged a little.
“BERNARD?!” I cried. (Silently, because the humans already think I’m unstable.)
I sat there in the darkness, chewing regret.
Also wings.
For the rest of the night, I refused to move. I just lay on the windowsill, staring at the moon and mourning the love I consumed. Literally.
In the morning, the human asked why I was acting weird. I stared dramatically out the window and sighed so loud she Googled “Can cats get seasonal depression?”
R.I.P. Bernard.
You were weird, dusty, and utterly snackable.
You taught me that love is fleeting.
And that I should chew slower.
Forever yours (kind of),
Gryzka
P.S.
If any other moths are reading this: call me. 🐾
No comments:
Post a Comment