Down Goes Fluffy

She comes to me
in tears,
wearing a pink
nightgown.
I notice the night
gown first,
the tears second.
I want her to stop
crying.
Those tears
might ruin everything,
or at least
everything my eyes
are telling me
could happen.
But she's crying,
sobbing, weeping.
This seems to be
a beginning
with no foreseeable end.
She is lost in grief.
It's a storm
sweeping onto shore.
What? I ask.
What's happened?
She tells me
that her mother's cat
has died.
Fluffy has passed away
at the age
of twenty-one.
Christ, I whisper.
What?
She wipes her eyes
with her pale thin hands,
then rubs
the heel of each
into her eye sockets.
I put my hand on her thigh.
To comfort her.
Her skin is like silk.
I can smell a sweet cloud
of perfume rising
from the curves
of her body.
She was up to something
until her mother called
with this news
about the cat.
I notice the heels,
the nylons that compliment
the pink negligee.
Fluffy, she sobs,
and trembles.
Fluffy is gone.
I shake my head.
Where will you possibly
get another cat,
I want to say, but don't.
It might ruin things
for a very long time.
Instead, I tell her
to lean her head
against my shoulder.
Like that,
right there.
Shhh, shhh.
It's going to be okay.
I tell her.
Everything will be just fine.
Poor Buffy.
No, she says. Fluffy.
Right, I say.
Fluffy.