Cara leaned back on the warm stone. A cat, the feral one who lived under the old brewhouse, came to sit between us.
‘Careful,’ I said.
‘I had a cat when we lived in Italy.’ Cara reached out her hand. ‘Valentino.’
The cat raised its scrawny neck in pleasure as Cara scratched at its matted fur. ‘He would sleep in the bed between me and Peter, stretched out like a little furry man.’ The cat purred. ‘Peter never liked it, of course.’
I put my hand out towards Cara’s, still stroking. The cat opened its mouth and hissed.
This is a 100-word Friday Fictioneers flash fiction piece, prompted by the picture above. This week provided by Scott L Vannatter. Friday Fictioneers is brought to us by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click here to join in, or here to read some more stories.