Husband likes to joke that Cat is my real lover. He claims that my expression doesn’t change when I see him, but I can’t stop the corners of my mouth from turning upward whenever I catch sight of Cat. Husband doesn’t mind—he’s not the jealous type. He came to love Cat because of me, he says—loving Cat is just the same as loving me. Cat and I are sometimes fused into a single entity, but Cat also has the ability to be my doppelgänger.

As my doppelgänger, Cat is my other self. He loves running the household and meticulously manages the mundane day-to-day chores. All day long he patrols the flat, lying here or sitting there, taking an inventory of every item that we own, not forgetting the dust on it—he believes every mote that lands in the apartment belongs to us too. He takes careful stock of the dust each day, making sure the amount hasn’t changed. Husband often complains that I’m unhygienic because I don’t like cleaning. Frankly, I believe housework is a cruel habit, a way of erasing history. Like me, Cat is unwilling to wipe away all traces of himself from our lives.

Ever since becoming my doppelgänger, Cat has relied on eating dust to maintain his appearance. Luckily he’s still my Cat. He looks the same, and there’s still the same quantity of dust in the flat—there’s no way he’d ever eat it all. With his rough tongue, he licks at the surface of a vase, taking a count of the dust motes on its surface. The more, the tastier. Too little dust leads to a blander flavor profile.

All Cat’s toys—scratching posts, laser pointers, bells, stuffed mice, the bowl he eats out of—are blanketed in a thin film of dust, which makes it easy for him to find them. All these objects belong to Cat, and the dust is left each time he touches them. The thicker the layer, the more frequent his contact.

At night, when Cat wriggles under the covers, I get in there too and puff out a lungful of mesmerizing air. This causes Cat to melt so he can seep into my body. I feel my temperature rise a few degrees. Like mercury, Cat rises from the soles of my feet to my chest, warming me thoroughly. When he can rise no more, he grows still and begins snoring, and I drop off too.

As we sleep, Cat continues appearing in my dreams. Bit by bit, I wipe clean the dream lens that reflects my subconscious. This way, I can see a little more of Cat in dreamland and remember these images more clearly when I wake.

In the mornings, I toss aside the covers, and Cat swiftly leaps out of my body. He floats in the air, and when the sun hits him, he is made of the same crystalline dust. Cat swirls around me, absorbing his fill of sunlight.

A new day. Cat coalesces once again into his usual form.

Cat drifts contentedly across the room, landing lightly wherever he fancies. Seek out the places that accumulate the most dust, and there you will find Cat.