P
CAT
Everybody owns me. Nobody buys me on purpose. I have been in that door since before you moved in and I will still be there when you leave.
There is no household on this planet that decided to have me. I simply accumulate. Somebody buys a big one for a barbecue in July and I am still standing there in February, next to a jar of something nobody will open either.
I am not a treat. I am infrastructure with a sad face.
Nothing moves. You shake harder. I make the exact same dry sound and keep everything inside.
Once on the table, then six more times because the first five clearly did not count.
One pale drop appears. You relax for half a second and that is when the entire bottle leaves at once.
The meal is now secondary. You wipe the table, the floor, your sleeve, and put me back in the door.
Nothing will happen for the first second. That part is authentic.
Brought to the table without being asked for. Left there without being used.
Second shelf, behind the milk. Four months. The light only comes on for other people.
The official portrait. They took it at eye level, which nobody has ever done in real life.
Closing time. The counter is wiped, the stools are up, and nobody carried me back in.
Buy
X
Chart