My cat is lying with her head against the bedroom door. Her paw twitches, while the many keys play from my piano music. She’s either running in her sleep, or composing big concertos.
The laptop breathes, and does my tasks, like writing blog posts. Maybe someday it will come back to enslave me and make me check its emails, and find another human slave for me to breed with. That would be nice. All those computer screens watching us. Her name would be Financia, and I would always tease her that her name sounded like Financial, and therefore boring. She would be self-conscious about her small breasts and that my laptop leered at us while we make whoopy. Her hair would be long and cover her eyes if she didn’t move it, and she’d laugh with her hips. I could deal with this robot uprising. I for one, welcome our–you know the rest.
The cat squeaks. Footsteps up the hall woke her up. Why squeak though? Would squeaking help wake you up? She puts her head back on the carpet. Some part of her must hear this music, even if it’s not like we hear it. It is a beautiful soundtrack to sleep to.