Apparently you’re not supposed to smile when a cat scratches you.
That’s what he said to me, when he realised I was getting bad again.
When a cat drags its claws across your ashen skin, you’re not meant to be pleased.
When blood breaks through to the surface making a line of glossy claret globules along the path that the claw forged on the landscape of your arm, you’re not meant to be relieved.
Apparently you’re meant to wipe the blood away immediately, not let it coast slowly downwards over the old scars made by imaginary cats until it collects in the crook of your elbow, a glorious ruby fjord.
Apparently once a cat scratches you, you’re not meant to aggravate it further, you’re not meant to hope that it pounces again, you’re not meant to be thrilled by a second, third, fourth scratch.
Apparently there are lots of things that we’re not supposed to do.
You’re not meant to do lots of things, but I do.
He knows I don’t like doing what I’m supposed to.
He knows I never do what I’m meant to.
He told me, ‘The sting from a cat scratch is not supposed to spark a suicidal smile.’
Oh but it does, it does.
It shouldn’t, it’s not supposed to, it’s not meant to, but it does…