Bicycles-Angeline is a tortoiseshell cat. Bicycles because I first saw her all curled up beside my neighbor’s two bicycles. Angeline because she tends to disappear for long stretches at a time, then reappear again seemingly out of nowhere, like this morning. She hadn’t come by for over two months. So I took up her cup of water and her little cat box, which my neighbor had placed beside their bicycles so she could curl up in it, and take a wee nap whenever she visited.

This was a few days into the new year. Her box had accumulated a layer of dust. Her water still fresh from yesterday’s daily change. I was thinking – hoping – it might’ve been a good Christmas for her, as well as the family which had adopted her. It was a poignant moment. I would’ve taken her in a while ago, if I were living alone. But I was happy for her because I was rooting for her.

Lo and behold, there she was this morning, when I turned the corner coming out of my building. I yelped, and she roared at me like a Bengal tiger. She’s always had a loud voice. Then she did her little dance around me. Right foot, left foot; front leg, back leg. Rubbed her face on everything that’s me. Licked my bag. I kept running my finger tips through her back till they were filmy from her oils. I talked to her the whole time. Don’t remember what I said. I just kept talking to her.

My Angeline, Bicycles-Angeline. And as of this morning, Bicycles-Angeline Bengal.

*

Pauletta is not a cat.

Her father’s of Indian ancestry, her mother Chinese, and Pauletta beautiful. I call her Pauletta just because.

When I first saw Pauletta, she was seventeen, I eighteen. And all I said was, Wow! She didn’t hear me. Now I wish she did. I didn’t know I was going to do the stupidest thing. Now I wish I did.

Forty years ago now. Forty years. Clear as day; obscure as night.

We were hanging out at the railing in the sun at school. She and I. Just talking. And talking. About nothing. Best kind of conversation. That’s when you know. You know?

Then she made like she was going to leave, stopped short, and said this, Hope I didn’t get you in trouble with your girlfriend.

I don’t have a girlfriend, I replied.

She looked at me, silent in her effervescent way, then raised her hand slowly to gesture, later.

I looked at her walking away. Never look at anyone walking away. You’ll regret it. I’m still looking at her walking away today.

Prom night, I had gone stag. There was a reason. But it’s too convoluted to explain, so I’m not going to try.

The only memory from that night, which I care to carry with me all these years, is holding Pauletta close to me during the slow set. Real close, first song to the last. She just sort of appeared in front of me out of nowhere, like an angel, in her powder-blue babydoll dress with a bubble skirt.

Dance? That was all she had to say.

When the last number ended, and the tempo sped up again, she raised her head from my shoulder, and said to me with a little laugh at herself, I think you cradled me to sleep.

Pauletta could always say anything to me. A master weaver who weaved out all awkwardness from everything.

*

I must have been lost in my thoughts completely. My Angeline is gone again. She wanted to cross the street, so I did that with her. We were step-in-step. It’s our little game. She hopped onto a marble bench, then crouched down. Wonderful idea, baby, I said, and sat down, my shorts brushing up against her side. She was purring.

I didn’t see her leave. And that’s always easier since I don’t know when she would come back again.

Pauletta, watching her walk away, after holding her tighter for every last lingering note of that slow set, prom night, was to do the stupidest thing. Not reaching for her to pull her back in, I’ll die with this regret. I didn’t have the courage that night to change things. Now I know exactly why. But I no longer have the courage anymore to say it, knowing that unlike my Angeline, Pauletta will never be there when I turn the corner coming out of my building.