She is like a cat.
She is like a cat that you desperately want to call your own, for a little while.
You put out food, hoping to lure her close.
She takes the food (and is grateful for it).
Then she slinks back out of reach, jumping on the fence, balancing one foot in front of the other.
Never looking down, or left, or right.
From this distance, in this light, she is glorious to you.
Radiant fur, shining amber eyes full of heat.
She must be so soft. She must be so warm, to hold.
You want her to stop circling your legs.
You want, finally, to feel her climb into your lap.
Then, oh then. What you would do.
We both know what you would do.
And she would stretch herself luxuriously, under your touch.
And you would hear her purr, which is as rich and loud as you've imagined.
But also, after a little while, you would notice that she is not that glorious.
You would feel the grit in her fur. (She's been outside a long time.)
You would see, up close, that the shine and heat in her eyes is actually low-simmering fear.
And then, maybe, you would stop feeding her.
And she would feel the pinch of hunger more keenly than you would feel the loss of temporary pet.
That is why it is hard for her to trade your legs for your lap.
Not that she wouldn't.
Not that she won't.