The ring-pull of the tin creates a wet, sucking sound in the quiet kitchen.

The ring-pull of the tin creates a wet, sucking sound in the quiet kitchen. It is 4:12 PM. The light is grey, filtering through grime that has settled on the window glass over years of closed shutters. You hold the container with thumb and forefinger, feeling the condensation cold against your skin. Inside, the pâté is a uniform, bruised pink. It smells of iron and rendered fat, a scent so specific it seems to hover independently of the air around it.

A grey cat sits on the linoleum floor. It does not know you yet. Its fur is matted at the tail base, where the skin shows raw and pink beneath. You scoop a portion with a spoon that has been used for coffee earlier in the day; brown grit clings to the metal rim, mixing invisibly into the meat. You set the dish on the floorboards. The wood has swelled near the baseboard from a leak long since repaired, leaving a permanent, buckled geography underfoot.

The cat approaches with no urgency. It lowers its head. The whiskers brush the rim of the dish, sending faint vibrations through the stale air. You watch the tongue move, a rhythmic, wet rasping against the porcelain. A drop of juice runs down the side of the dish onto the floor. The cat ignores it. It is focused entirely on the consumption, its body contracting with each swallow.

You remain standing, your weight shifting to one leg. Your hands hang at your sides, knuckles stiff and dry. There is no word spoken. No greeting offered. The cat finishes. It walks away, tail low, disappearing into the shadowed hallway where the darkness seems thicker than usual.

You pick up the empty tin. You carry it to the sink. The faucet driks, a slow, metronomic beat against the basin’s bottom. You rinse the container under a thin stream of water. The pink residue swirls down the drain, vanishing into the pipe’s dark throat. You dry your hands on a towel that has gone stiff with mildew. The kitchen remains silent.