featureless terrain.

My cat lies on the kitchen table, and stares at Zak. Zak sits at the table and stares back at her. His face says, “What’s this?” even though they have shared an apartment for months.
*
I begin to do the dishes. I stop between a plate and a bowl. I enjoy the lukewarm water trickling down my hand. I have my back to Zak and the cat. I’m positive they’re still making eye contact. I wish I could see what my cat is seeing.
*
“This is a cat,” Zak says, matter-of-factly.
*
I get started on the bowl, put too much soap on it. Nearly drop it.
*
“Yes,” I say, without turning, “that is a cat.”
*
No response. As I wash the bowl, I keep composing a melody in my head, inspired by the garbage truck that passed by the house at 7 a.m.
*
Yesterday Zak spent his day in his bedroom, swinging back and forth and writing numbers in a notebook. He filled half the notebook. That’s OK according to his therapist, but I prefer him outside his bedroom, doing something, even if it’s sitting by the kitchen table.
*
“This is a cat,” Zak says again, the same tone as before.
*
I turn off the tap.
*
“Yes, Zak,” I say, “that is a cat.”
*
I lean against the counter, my hands resting on the edge of the sink. I’m unable to move. The melody stops. All I can hear is a truck turning the corner.
*
“This is a cat,” Zak says again. He sounds as if he’d just made a new discovery.
*
I’d bet the cat hasn’t moved a bit all this while.
*
I wish I was more like Zak. Or the cat. Or at least I understood them better.