It wasn't the first time I woke up someplace strange, but the depravity: the towels for curtains; the smelly couch with its faded upholstery of bells and statues of liberty; the way the tiny black cat looked at me from the milk crate that served as a coffee table. As if I might be her savior, or at least, the one with food. I wiped under my eyes, to do away with the raccoon my mascara usually left. I located my bag on the floor near my feet, apparently unruffled and intact. "Mew," the cat said, rubbing against my arm. I didn't see anyone, so I scooped her up and deposited her in my bag. As I closed the apartment door, she stayed quiet and still. While I wondered out-loud whose place we were leaving, she kept silent. I walked to the corner to make out the street name, so I could call a cab. She was perfect on the ride home, but when I let her out in my place, she talked up a storm. It seemed she said we needed to start over. It was true we'd only met, but it was time for me to turn over a new leaf. I rubbed her head like the belly of Buddha and promised there would never be a night like the last. Never again would she need to watch over me, to see if I woke or not. Never again would I not remember what happened the night before.