She woke to find the house, as always, empty, but for herself and the cats. There was a comforting feeling to the emptiness by now. It had existed long enough to warmly blanket rather than wetly smother. Today, however, the comfort was gone, and there was only the feeling of blank, empty space -- space that had not been filled yet. She shrugged, for she had felt such things before, when she first moved in, or when she was in one of her black moods. Perhaps she was headed for another. At least the cats loved her. She always had her cats. Cats were better than people. And they required less work than dogs.

Ambling into the kitchen, she busied herself placing dry food and fresh water for her friends, sleepy brown eyes still blinking owlishly from another nap. She was always tired. She was unsure if it was from being alone for years, in the nearly-empty house, or from working the graveyard shift, or both. She was plump and apple-cheeked, average, not a Big Beautiful Woman; cute, not pretty. For the umpteenth time, she shoved her mahogany bangs out of her eyes, thinking absently that she really should get her hair cut soon.

As if by some innate sense, or perhaps smelling the tuna she always cracked open, her two cats and latest rescue kitten scampered into the kitchen, weaving and ducking about her feet, meowing piteously for attention and rubbing against her ankles and her hands and face, as she set their bowls down.