Don’t go to sleep, my gray contented pussycat, for my friend Valentine will soon ring the bell, make her entrance, swish about, and carry on. She will run her gloved hand over your back, and your spine will shudder as you look at her with murderous eyes. You know she really doesn’t like you very much, my short-haired country girl, she goes into ecstasies over Angoras, which have capes like collies and whiskers like Chauchard. Ever since you scratched her that day, she keeps her distance; she knows nothing about your violent soul, delicate and vindictive, the soul of a bohemian cat. As soon as she comes, turn your striped back to her, roll yourself up into a turban at my feet, on the satin scratched by your curved claws shaped like the thorns of a wild rosebush….Shhh! she rang….here she is! She shivers and haphazardly plants her icy little nose on my face – she kisses so poorly! – Colette, What Must We Look Like?
image: Toraman the Caddy by elifvargi