Sophie Leafcatcher

[scarlettina]

Sophie sits by the sliding doors to the balcony, mewing plaintively. She is clearly distressed. The balcony is damp from the rain and littered with fallen leaves from trees nearby. They are every shape and color, quite pretty actually.

Sophie: Let me out. Let me out. Let me out let me out let me out!
Me: OK, OK. Clearly this can't wait.
(I open the door. Sophie scoots out, very deliberately grabs one particular red, almond-shaped leaf, and scoots back in. She puts the leaf down in the middle of the living room floor and then looks up at me.)
Sophie: The leaf was cold. And wet. See? It's better in here.
Me: I . . . see your point.
(I pet her. She leans into the caress, but . . .)
Sophie: Good. So long as we understand each other.
(Sophie walks away. The leaf lays there, undisturbed by me or her or Ezekiel for about fifteen minutes. Sophie comes back and looks at it.)
Sophie: It'll be even better once I bite it.
(Sophie descends upon the leaf and crumbles it in more-or-less in half. She attempts to chew on the bits.)
Sophie: No, no. You know? I liked it better the way it was. Feh on this broken leaf. Feh!
(Sophie walks away.)