Cat is drawn to running water, not because he hopes to catch a glimpse of his own reflection but out of instinct—because he is inseparable from liquid. Indeed, he always vanishes quickly from my sight while the water continues gurgling away.

Cat trickles around bookshelves, beneath the breakfast bar, past my work desk, into our wardrobe, and under our bed. How can we be sure this is Cat? Because the stream eventually reaches me, and I feel my skin moisten where Cat has lapped at it. A tongue of water that dissolves me where it touches.

In the afternoon, Cat and I ripple through the flat together, drifting wherever the sunlight falls. Our soft bodies contort into all kinds of shapes and unseemly postures. Cat has always been more malleable than me, a skill I don’t particularly envy.

Sometimes I morph into a huge container, a venue within which Cat can perform. He turns flat, then bulbous; thick, then slender; vast, then tiny; round, then pancakelike; a normal cat, then nothing at all.

Yes, Cat can induce himself to vanish.

Once, I went searching everywhere for him, from the living room to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the balcony, from the balcony to the bedroom, from the bedroom to the pool. I called his name, but cats answer to no name, and in the end they are all Meow Meow.

Meow Meow! Meow Meow!

Cat didn’t respond. The sun blazed, pouring its light onto the name as I called. Shimmering circles appeared before my eyes. I clung to them and climbed through the air. Before too long, I reached the highest vantage in the entire city. The rings of light were made of seven colors, becoming transparent when they aligned. Such adorable see-through rounds. I stared at them and watched them grow faint.

Meow Meow! Meow Meow!

Cat appeared before me, and I couldn’t wait to ask where he’d been. Then I noticed his fur was all ruffled and windswept, and understood: the rings of light had all been Cat. He’d gone from solid to liquid, then evaporated into gas. And now he had returned to his habitual state.