I once heard Husband remark, “My wife is a catlike woman.”

This was a lovely thing to hear, and a secret joy blossomed in my heart. I imagined him elaborating, “She’s just like a cat: independent, elegant, beguiling.” Yet despite my attentive ear, I somehow failed to hear him say those words—in fact, he fell completely silent. As if he’d never spoken the first sentence, so naturally the words didn’t follow.

It’s okay, I told myself. I just needed to be patient. After all, we lived together, we had all the time in the world. I didn’t ask him about it because I was so confident that the explanation would arrive unbidden. I waited and waited, my expectations not lessening one little bit. In fact, they grew stronger until I began imagining myself into a cat with the same enchanting personality that all cats exhibit. Some people use “catlike” to mean a human who isn’t easy to understand or control. A catlike woman must surely be full of allure, not in a superficial way but in one that emanates a strong attraction from deep within, making everyone want to get closer to her while also maintaining a respectful distance.

Women are the most catlike creatures on the planet. As a catlike person myself, I decided I ought to have enough tenderness and patience to wait for an explanation. I wouldn’t be anxious; I would simply wait. A very long time passed. Husband didn’t give away the faintest hint of what might have followed that fragment of conversation, as if he’d forgotten he ever uttered it. My forbearance began to fray, wearing thin my cat-resemblance.

Sometime after that, I distinctly sensed a cat whooshing out of my body and disappearing into the ether. I had utterly lost my catness. Now I found myself thinking nonsense all day long, turning circles in my brain. What could Husband’s behavior mean? Why had he foregone the second half of that sentence?

Now I was no longer catlike, I grew short-tempered, quick to anger. As soon as the fuse was lit, I would tense up, losing all my self-confidence. Looking in the mirror, I could scarcely believe this was me. Obviously there was a likeness, but I didn’t want to look like that.

More days slip by. Since the catness left my body, I had grown scrawny. Then the day came when, out of the blue, Husband stood next to me and said, “My wife is a catlike woman.” With that, he began shaving, his face covered in thick foam so I couldn’t make out his expression in the mirror. If he’d never brought up those words again, I could have left them to fester in my heart, pretending he’d never spoken them. Time would have worn them away. But now he’d repeated the same infuriating half-baked thought. Fury roared uncontrollably through my lungs, and I choked out the words, “Could you please kindly explain how I’m like a cat?”

I wasn’t enraged because he’d once again left me dangling but rather because I no longer felt anything like a cat. Startled by my fierceness, Husband gaped. The flames kept blazing in my chest, roaring even higher, and my voice got even louder: “Don’t call me a cat. I’m no longer a cat.”

He looked puzzled and pointed to the floor. “All I mean is you leave strands of hair everywhere, just like Cat does. All this fluff belongs to you and Cat.” He gestured in the mirror at his own crew cut.

I reeled and felt my face grow scalding hot. Awkwardly hanging my head, I smiled to myself, not saying a word. In that moment, I felt the catness return to my body.