There’s a cat who lives in my parking lot.

When I roll into the homestead at odd hours after work, she wakes up from some hiding spot under a tree and yaaaaawwnns. She will slowly pad out across the dirt lot to meet me halfway — some equi-distance between my car and the apartment building entrance.

It’s true, I call her Conscience.

Cat law dictates that Conscience abide by the two following acts:  First, stare with extreme ambivalence. Next, when you sense that human-person-girl is about to disappear again into the night, run after her in a moment of urgency.

It is a simple arrangement, and we are delighted to see each other every night. I love this cat.

I’m not sure when I first started calling her Conscience.  Naturally it makes me sound like I’m a very guilty Susan, yes?

… The last time I fell in love, I thought about how far I was willing to go. I had to cross the city.  I joked and called it freeway love. … Full speed!

The neon streaks of all the passing lights rendered the world a time capsule, a shot in the dark.

[Diagram #1XCZ447]