And Then, the Bastard Winked at Me

The first time I met Winks, I was having a perfectly respectable argument with a jar of pickles. The lid wouldn't budge. My tea was getting cold, my favourite show had reached the part where everyone started making terrible decisions, and I was two seconds away from questioning every life choice that had brought me to that particular Sunday afternoon. Then something knocked against my window.

I ignored it. It happened again.

Oh, for God's sake.

I marched over, ready to confront whatever bird, branch or neighbourhood child had decided to make my problems their business. Instead, I found a black cat sitting on the windowsill, staring at me through the glass. He was a handsome little thing. Sleek black fur, a white tip on his tail and green eyes that looked far too intelligent for someone who probably licked his own backside for entertainment.

I opened the window.

Can I help you?

He stared at me.

Lost, are you?

Nothing.

Well, this isn't a hotel.

He blinked slowly, stretched one paw and looked at me as if I were the one behaving strangely. I should have shut the window right then. Instead, I stepped aside.

He walked into my house without hesitation, jumped onto my favourite armchair and settled down like a retired businessman arriving at his country estate.

I stared at him. He stared back.

And then the bastard winked at me.

I don't know what offended me more. The audacity or the fact that I immediately wondered whether he wanted tea.

Absolutely not, I informed him. Whatever you think is happening here, it isn't.

He closed his eyes.

I spent the next ten minutes arguing with a cat who had already decided the matter was settled. By evening, he had eaten half a bowl of food I'd bought specifically for him, shed enough fur on my armchair to make a second cat and ignored every attempt I made to escort him out.

I assumed he'd disappear by morning.

He didn't.

The next day, I found him waiting outside my window. By the end of the week, he had established a routine. He arrived whenever he pleased, ate whatever I gave him and slept wherever I happened to need space.

I bought him a bed. He slept in my laundry basket. I bought him toys. He preferred the receipt. I bought him a scratching post. He destroyed the sofa.

Winks had many qualities, but gratitude was not among them.

Still, I found myself looking forward to his visits. That was the first problem.

The second was that I had started talking to him. Not the occasional remark people make to animals, either. I was having full conversations with him, explaining my work problems, complaining about the price of groceries and occasionally asking for his opinion on matters he could not possibly understand.

He listened with the patience of a therapist who charged in fish. Or perhaps he simply liked the sound of my voice. I preferred that explanation.

For a long time, I'd been very good at keeping myself company. I had learned not to expect too much from people because expectations had a nasty habit of turning into disappointments. I kept busy, kept my feelings to myself and told everyone I was fine even when I wasn't.

It was easier that way.

People asked questions when you looked unhappy. They wanted explanations, solutions and reassurances that you would be back to normal soon.

Winks wanted none of that. He wanted food at six, a warm place to sleep and the occasional opportunity to ruin my belongings.

It was strangely comforting.

He didn't care whether I'd had a productive day or whether I'd spent three hours staring at my laptop without writing a single useful sentence. He didn't care if I was wearing my oldest pyjamas or if I'd forgotten to brush my hair.

He simply showed up.

And somewhere along the way, I began to understand how much I'd missed that feeling. Not being needed for what I could do. Not being appreciated for what I could provide. Just having someone choose my company without asking me to earn it first.

Of course, Winks would have denied any emotional involvement if he could speak. He had a reputation to maintain.

One evening, I came home after a particularly awful day and found him sitting beside the door. He looked up as I entered, stretched lazily and walked away without so much as a greeting.

Nice to see you too, I muttered.

Usually, I'd have followed him into the living room, complained about his attitude and tried to coax him into playing with one of his toys. That evening, I couldn't manage it.

I dropped my bag beside the sofa and sat down in the dark.

Everything felt heavy. Work, money, the things I'd left unfinished and the things I couldn't fix no matter how hard I tried. I was tired of being sensible about everything. Tired of telling myself to be patient. Tired of acting as though being strong meant never admitting that something hurt.

I covered my face with my hands.

I wasn't planning to cry. I rarely planned to cry. It just happened when I'd run out of ways to convince myself that I was fine.

For a few minutes, the room was quiet.

Then I felt a small weight settle against my thigh.

Winks had climbed onto the sofa. He nudged my arm once and then again, growing increasingly offended when I failed to respond. Eventually, he climbed into my lap, turned around twice and settled against my stomach.

His purring filled the silence.

I laughed through my tears.

You have absolutely no idea what's going on, do you?

He pressed his face against my hand.

I stroked his head, and something inside me finally loosened. I cried without trying to make it quiet or tidy. I cried because the day had been terrible and because some days were simply harder than others. I cried because I was tired of carrying everything so carefully.

Winks stayed.

He didn't solve anything. He couldn't. In the morning, my problems would still be waiting for me, and the world would continue being the world.

But for that one evening, I didn't have to pretend. I could be tired. I could be sad. I could sit in the dark with an unwashed face and a cat who had absolutely no respect for personal space.

And I could still be loved.

The thought startled me. Not because it was some grand revelation, but because I'd spent so long treating affection as something fragile. Something that could disappear if I became inconvenient, if I asked for too much or if I stopped being useful.

Winks had never asked me to be anything other than the person who opened the window.

He'd come for food, certainly. He wasn't a saint. But he kept coming back.

After that evening, I stopped calling him a stray. I took him to the vet, got him checked and made arrangements to keep him properly. I bought him a new collar, which he tolerated with the enthusiasm of a man being sentenced to prison.

When the vet asked what his name was, I said Winks. She smiled and asked why.

I considered telling her the truth but decided that admitting a cat had flirted his way into my house might raise unnecessary questions.

Long story, I said.

Winks looked up from my arms.

The vet laughed. I did not appreciate being outnumbered.

Life settled into a new rhythm after that. Winks became a permanent fixture in my home, and I became the sort of person who took photographs of her cat sleeping in increasingly ridiculous positions.

He still knocked things off tables. He still ignored his expensive bed. He still believed my keyboard was a suitable place to sit whenever I had work to finish.

Some things, apparently, were beyond saving.

But I changed too.

I started taking breaks when I was tired instead of pushing through everything. I stopped apologizing for having bad days. I learned that I could ask for help without turning it into a joke and that I didn't have to earn the right to rest.

It wasn't all because of a cat, of course. Winks wasn't a magical creature sent to repair my life. He was a small, opinionated animal with questionable manners and a remarkable ability to locate food.

But he reminded me of something I'd forgotten.

Life didn't have to be extraordinary to be good.

Sometimes it was enough to come home, make a cup of tea and have a warm little creature waiting for you on the sofa. Sometimes happiness was the sound of paws running down the hallway or the sight of a black tail disappearing around a corner.

Sometimes it was knowing that tomorrow morning, someone would be there to wake you up at an unreasonable hour because breakfast was apparently a matter of national importance.

Nearly a year after he first appeared at my window, I found myself sitting in the same armchair he'd claimed on that first afternoon.

It was raining outside. My tea was warm, my phone was silent and Winks was curled up beside me, fast asleep.

I looked at him and thought about how close I'd come to shutting the window that day. I could have chased him away. I could have decided I didn't have the time, the money or the patience for another responsibility.

And perhaps my life would have been easier. Quieter, certainly.

But I would have missed the tiny creature who had turned my house into a home without asking my permission.

I reached down and stroked his head.

You know, you were a very rude guest.

One green eye opened.

You walked into my house, stole my chair and ate my food.

He stretched.

And you had the nerve to look pleased with yourself.

Winks yawned, revealing a set of tiny teeth that had somehow managed to destroy two charging cables and a corner of my favourite book.

I shook my head.

Honestly, you're lucky I love you.

He climbed into my lap and settled down with a satisfied sigh.

I smiled and leaned back against the cushions.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, everything was quiet except for the steady rumble of his purring.

For once, I didn't feel the need to fill the silence. I simply sat there, stroking his fur, grateful for the strange little life we'd built together.

Then Winks opened one eye, looked directly at me and gave me that familiar, infuriating wink.

I burst out laughing.

You absolute bastard.

His tail flicked once before he went back to sleep.

And that was the thing about Winks.

He'd arrived as a stranger, stayed as an uninvited guest and somehow become family.

He hadn't changed the world. He hadn't made my problems disappear or promised that everything would be all right.

He'd simply stayed.

And sometimes, I was learning, that was the loveliest thing anyone could do. Even if that someone happened to be a cat who had broken into my house and flirted his way into permanent residence.

I took another sip of my tea and glanced down at the sleeping creature in my lap.

A year ago, I hadn't even owned a cat. Now I paid for his food, worried about his health, apologized when I accidentally disturbed his naps and had an entire camera roll dedicated to his face.

I was hopeless.

He was spoiled.

And neither of us was going anywhere.

I looked at him one last time before settling comfortably into the chair.

Goodnight, Winks.

He didn't open his eyes.

He didn't need to.

The little bastard was already home.