Her window’s catless. He rings the bell.

“Who is it?”

“Alex.”

The door opens and there she is, a scarecrow of a woman with frazzled hair and a tired look. Did he wake her up? He doesn’t ask. She invites him in and the cats scatter like a handful of marbles. One peers out wide-eyed from inside a box. Alex looks around. There’s a smell of incense, jasmine, stale, makes the room smell damp, like after a rain. The walls and bookcases are covered with posters and prints. Mostly cats, and Marilyn Monroe. The cat woman’s degree is the only thing framed. He admires a postcard of Marilyn on one of her shelves.

“Are you a fan of Norma Jean’s?” he asks.

“Not like that,” she says. “I just think people didn’t know who she was. They only knew her image, what was there on the outside and she wasn’t like that at all. In a lot of her pictures you can see it, the look in her eyes. She was a troubled person. When I see that look in her eyes I know she’s sad, that there are things she wants to say but can’t, because the world won’t let her. I guess I identify with her somehow.”

Alex examines the picture. She’s right about the look in Marilyn’s eyes. It’s in every photo, a beautiful woman whose eyes betray the vulnerabil-ity of a young girl. That was her image, no secret. That’s what was so attractive about her. When Alex looks at a woman, he instantly knows what he likes about her, the curve of her breasts, her smile, the look in her eyes, the way her hair catches the light. The cat woman is skinny, a stick figure with gnarled locks. He changes the subject, and she’s immediately concerned about his house guest.

“He doesn’t sound familiar.”

“I was hoping you might know if he be-longed to someone.”

“I wish I could help, but he doesn’t sound familiar.” They manufacture a makeshift litter box, cardboard lined with a garbage bag. She provides litter, some dry food.

“The litter is nice,” she says. “I like it. It smells like hay.” She scoops up a handful and lets it run through her fingers. “I don’t go around smell-ing cat litter so don’t think I’m weird. This stuff is made from peanut shells. They soak them and feed them through a meat grinder.”

Reluctantly, Alex scoops up a handful of his own, smells it, and lets it sift back down into the box.

“Very nice,” he says.

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