SCHUMAN (part 1)

My mother has left after a week long visit.  It's Friday night. I sit on my tattered sofa sipping red wine and listen to Schuman on my laptop.

The apartment is mine again. I look around the room: my new bike painting, the plants - just watered, the cat.

I call out to the cat who sits comatose in a nearby fold out recliner.

"Aroo -oo!"

The cat offers a sodden leer. He's not moving. He can barely blink. (I give up on the cat).

I consider leaving the sofa for the kitchen.  It's time to eat. But my arms ache and my lower back hurts (it's wasting).  My walk will be a drunken spasm to the kitchen (tragic and film noir-ish) - (wine or no wine).
I stay put and focus on Schuman. I faintly smile and swill my wine. I note the absurdity - the theatrical drama of this scene. The cat and I (longtime roommates) are doomed.