Ambette was hanging around the loft as usual, purring and striking poses. It was raining that late afternoon. The available light was dull and leaden, what I most preferred for painting. I was not the first impressionist in Paris, but the critics thought I was the best. I was well known, and often copied.
She wanted to pose again. Something on the rug, she suggested – right. It was always something on the rug. What she really wanted was a few centimes to buy a bowl of absinth, but I gave in, as usual. She was very attractive in a glossy, media sort of way. She was . . . Where was I?
Ah, the pose. So anyway, I put her on the rug and arranged my paints on a clean pallet, taking my time with the new canvas, lapsing easily into a form of grand digital pointillism.
Time passed without measure as I slowly descended into a colorful twilight zone, painting for six hours straight before losing consciousness.
I woke up in darkness, on the floor, my fur coat reeked of turpentine and oil paint. A walk on the roof seemed like a good idea, to get some fresh air and see if any of the neighborhood kats were out.
Ambette and Katesse were snoring a somnambulist symphony from different parts of the loft as I climbed up into the quiet night beneath a sickle moon. A shadowed gothic world in black and white stretched far into the dark horizon. Dog barks echoed somewhere in the streets below.