BREACH Allison Fowle I can’t remember if you apologized like you meant it, if it was the kind of apology that could carry me to the other side of what you did or the kind that keeps me stopped in time. Here’s what I can remember: the stray cat that brushed against my leg while I confronted you in the parking lot before work. A cat I knew, had met before, a cat with a way of appearing uninvited, unannounced, unexpected as your hand on my ass. I sleep now with my jaw clenched, dream of cats slinking in through windows I left open, sidling through the unlocked front door. My fault, no apology owed. I forgave you but I didn’t mean it, know you’ll be back to crawl through the window, and tell me I misunderstood.
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