Everyone agreed that he was beautiful. He lived his life
as if he was because he was. He does what many
beauties do: he wields the art of seeming shy and self-
effacing, strolls through public places – lolls in parks,
outdoor cafés – pretends he’s not whom everyone is
yearning to pursue. “Who me?” – you’d think he’d think,
and say, if on a summer evening you approached him
in a darkening café right when its waiters had begun to light
the candles that would handle him in candlelight like lovers
want to handle lovers in whom they delight so much they
can’t quite bring themselves to touch them. You wouldn’t
think to rush him. His feline soul (you’re sure he has a feline
soul) would not respond to that. Can’t rush a cat. All you’d
want to do is say hello. Sit there for a moment in his glow.
Meanwhile he awaits the next sweet promise of another
lovely un-involvement. God, he loves to be the show!
He loves it so, it makes him sentimental, sometimes –
even sappy. He can’t remember when he wasn’t happy.