Henri pushed over the bowl to Napoleon with another sigh; perhaps his sixth sigh over the short span of us tricking him into coming out of his room, and simply pouring Napoleon’s food into her bowl and serving her.
“What’s wrong with you today?” I asked, perching up on one of the kitchen stools, and resting my chin in the palm of my hand which in turn rested on the isle.
He sighed, slid his glasses further up his nose, and idly drummed his fingers on the now empty can of cat food. “Mind full. Head empty…” he replied staring up at the ceiling, as if a divine angel was meant to descend and reveal to him all right words to use.
I expectantly waited for him to elaborate.
He shifted from one leg to the other. “Don’t you just… don’t sometimes?” There was an eagerness to be understood in his
