Hungry

Kittens are more important than hunting for jobs you don’t want.

I’ve been job-hunting for six hours: driving around in ninety-three-degree weather and stopping periodically to pick up applications at stores. I drag my feet into my uncle’s Craftsman house, where I’ve stayed for the past two weeks. In the front hall, I wrinkle my nose at the dog hair scent and piles of laundry baskets so full of clothing they look like they’re boiling over.

I enter the kitchen, where the black and white kitten, George, stands on the pink tile floor, looks up at me and greets me with a mew. I reach down and pet him. He erupts in purrs bigger than he.

I haven’t eaten since two slices of burnt toast at seven in the morning, and it’s now two in the afternoon, so my stomach growls like a tiger pacing back and forth in its cage. Apples and a banana reside on the center of the table: I wrinkle my nose because the apples look like they should’ve been eaten a month ago, and the banana is unfit for anything but banana bread. I turn around and open a microwave oven that hasn’t worked in decades and that my uncle now uses as a bread box. Inside, I find two loaves of bread, and one is wheat, so I take that loaf out and place it on the table. I get a jar of peanut butter from the fridge. I know the peanut butter is still good, because I had some yesterday. I set the jar on the table and turn back to the…