My housemate’s cat thinks he’s in love with me right now. I don’t trust it. I think he’s just confused. He must sense that he’ll be moving soon. Lately there have been new and extra people around and that perplexes him. He’s just looking for comfort.

He likes me because I let him hang out in my room. I also let him lick yogurt out of my bowl. I tend to sit still for long periods of time writing, reading, or (let’s be honest) staring at the walls. As far as cats are concerned I am a nonthreatening type.

He’s a nice guy. He can probably tell I’m lonely for cat company (for reasons I am not capable of going into today) so he responds to my affectionate chirping with charming and seductive behavior. Crawls into my lap and stretches out his paws to touch my chin. Butts his head against me and rubs his saliva all over my hands and face. Leans back and looks into my eyes, opening his mouth to make a little breathy meow followed by a yawn to demonstrate just how comfy he is, aren’t we just cosy lovers together baby? There’s nobody else in the world but you and me…

This behavior would be pretty sexy if his breath didn’t smell so bad and his paws weren’t so filthy. But as he is not of my species, there is no need to fuss over these details.

For days he’s been sprawling on my pillow every morning, all vigorous purring and furry wriggling. I walk to work drinking plain hot water out of a travel mug. I can smell his stinky drool on my fingers. I’m reminded of the ecstatic feeling that comes from smelling a lover’s sweat on my own skin in the course of a workaday morning. The kind of morning that follows a night you can’t end, a night that requires superhuman willpower to leave behind.

But Baudelaire is just a cat and his nightly activities in my room are limited to sleeping on my chair, rummaging around in my closet, and crying for me to open the door so he can pass in and out at his leisure. Still, he thinks he’s my boyfriend this week and I do feel rather flattered. He’s black and white, my favorite kind of cat, just as fine as he can be. Oh, Baudelaire, don’t you go forgetting me once you’ve left town.