“Don’t go back to your house. Just stay here and rest.”

Outside the morning was sunny and bright, and it was hard to believe it was December. Ozge was showered and dressed to go to her job at the museum. She had on her usual dark colours, the colours that matched her lovely dark hair and almost Russian features.

“Do me a favour,” Ozge added. “The cat made a mess near the planter. I will try to get a proper litter box later today. If you have time, can you hoover it?”

“OK,” I rolled over and kissed her sleepily. “Bye, babe.” She pulled the covers up over me and I closed my eyes.

When I awoke sometime later, she’d already been gone more than an hour. I got up, and padded into the living room. The cat was lying on the sofa. It was a light brown and orange colour, with a white belly, and we’d estimated its age at about three months. The night before, she’d been hanging around the doorway downstairs when Ozge buzzed me up. I’d had a few beers, and on impulse brought the cat upstairs. That evening, over a bottle of wine and more beer, we’d tossed about possible names, settling tentatively on Kedi Hanim (Ms. Cat in Turkish).

So now Kedi Hanim was lying on the sofa. She’d slept there, on one of Ozge’s old t-shirts. The poor thing was tired, maybe even a little ill. Hell, the streets were getting cold at night. Ozge had found some lice on Kedi Hanim and was planning to take her to the vet as soon as possible for shots.

I sat down on the sofa and went to check Facebook. It was snowing back in California, and Dave had posted photos. Anthony was in the Ethiopian Highlands, “falling in love with this beautiful country all over again.” A Kurdish guy whom I’d friended but didn’t remember meeting was posing with friends on the Bosphorous. I couldn’t understand his status update.

It felt weird being in Ozge’s flat without her being there. It felt a little like when you were a kid and your parents were at work.

“That’s us, cat,” I said. “We’re two kids at home while Mommy is at work.”

Kedi Hanim wanted to crawl into my lap, but she kept scratching at my balls, so I put her back on the t-shirt.

It was bizarre, the fact that suddenly we had a cat. When I’d brought her upstairs the night before, bundled in my coat with one hand, and clutching a bottle of red wine in the other, I had meant it as a kind of cavalier joke, a thing of wit. I would show Ozge the cat, she would appreciate it, and then I’d dump her back outside. I’m not sure if I even thought it through that way.

Anyway, when she opened the door, her face registered this surprise. “I saw only the wine,” she told me. “And then it turned into a cat.”

Now, it was morning, with all the bright sunshine coming in from the balcony, and it was a sober feeling, and the cat was still there, looking all brown and orange and white and tiny and real. “I have a cat now,” Ozge had in a low, happy whisper, sometime in the night. “I have a cat now, and a boyfriend too. Before I was alone, and now suddenly we are three.”

She was happy. She said she had always wanted to get a cat but never got around to it or something. Years ago, as a girl, she’d had a dog, with a big, sad, droopy face, and she had loved the dog and it died. She still had a picture of the dog on the refrigerator in the kitchen. She’d had a fish too and it had died, but she had never had a cat until now.

There we were, me and the cat, sitting (and lying) on the sofa, while friends battled snow in California and stood enthralled by the Ethiopian highlands, and strangers-turned-friends posed by the Bosphorous and Ozge worked at the museum. It was Sunday, and weekends could be busy at the museum. When she got home later she would want to work on some translations on museum management that she was doing for her masters at Istanbul University. It was difficult, meticulous work. Ozge said in Turkey professors used their students as slaves, always made the students do their work for them.

I went to the kitchen. Kedi Hanim followed me. Ozge had set some crumbled bread in a small dish on the floor, along with a little milk, even though it gave the cat the runs, but she wanted to ask her friends at the museum about proper food. At the palace lots of cats lived there, and were fed every day by the staff. I looked in the fridge, there was one beer left. I took it out and let the cat eat and went back to the living room.

On the BBC , there was a report that Nelson Mandela had died. There was an update on the unrest in the Ukraine. I went to the Hurriyet Daily News. More people were being charged in the Gezi Park protests. I thought about the fact that I hadn’t written anything in more than a month. The new underground that ran under the Bosphorous, connecting Europe and Asia, had opened up a few weeks ago. I hadn’t tried it out yet. Hank at Lost Coast Outpost said he would run the story.

I finished the beer. On my birthday Ozge had taken me to a good fish restaurant in the neighborhood, and we hadn’t been able to finish the bottle of raki, so we took it back to the flat. It was still on the shelf in the kitchen, so I poured a little in a glass and topped it with water. The cat followed me back into the living room.

On Youtube, I found a Marlon Brando documentary and put it on. It was a pretty good documentary, with people like Robert Duvall and Benicio del Toro giving commentary. About halfway through it, I realized I was out of cigarettes. Would need to go to the shop. It was just downstairs, out the gate and across the street.

Keys. She hadn’t left any keys. It had never come up. There were a few butts in the ashtray, I could smoke them. It was just noon, and Ozge wouldn’t be home from work until six. Just have to kill time until then. I put the Marlon Brando documentary on and watched it for a while. The cat’s feet were still dirty. We kept the bedroom door closed so she wouldn’t get on the bed. On the Internet the night before we’d done some research on AskYahoo. Some one had recommended using a damp, moist cloth, and rubbing it on the belly, so that the cat would be encouraged to start cleaning herself.

I went to the kitchen and found a rag near the sink, moistened it and brought it back to the living room. The cat was asleep. Her little paws were almost grey, so I began rubbing them with the cloth, watching some of the grey come out. The cat awoke languidly, and did not resist, so I went on and cleaned her other paws. By then she was awake, and turned over on her belly, so, following the Internet instructions, I began applying the cloth to her belly, and watched the Marlon Brando documentary. It was on the part where he showed up on the set for the filming of “Appocalypse Now.” The director Francis Ford Coppolla had told him just two things: to get in shape, and read Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness.” Instead, Brando showed up overweight and without having read the book.

Ozge messaged on Facebook. “How is the cat?” “She’s sleeping on the sofa,” I wrote. “I’m cleaning her.” “J Love her and you. Do you need anything?” “Just some cigarettes – and beer.” “OK. See you later xx”

By the time the Brando documentary ended, I had finished the bottle of raki, and smoked all the butts that had anything on them. I got up and paced, feeling trapped. The cat eyed me curiously from the sofa. I calculated. It would take only about two minutes to run down to the shop. I could close the cat up in the living room, then leave the door of the flat open just a crack, the same with the outside door. I had a key to the gate. If only the neighbors didn’t notice. Ozge and I weren’t married, and it wouldn’t look well for a strange man, a yabanci, to be seen slipping in and out of Ozge’s apartment. Some of the neighbors had seen me once or twice, but still, I might look like a thief.

I didn’t worry about the flat. It was a nice neighborhood, even a bit posh, and the shop was only two minutes away. I slipped on my boots, put on a hat and coat. I closed the living room door, with the cat looking at me from the sofa. She didn’t get up. I gently closed the main door, leaving it barely open, then slipped down the stairs, trying not to let my boots make too much noise. The outside door I left open, unlocked the outside gate and whipped across the street.

There were two men behind the counter. I must have been nervous, if not a bit drunk, for they eyed me with what seemed to be suspicion. “Lark mavi,” I said. The first man got a pack of Lark cigarettes and took the money. “Iyi gunler,” I said, and hurried back outside.

I went through the gate. The main door had shut somehow while I was away. Shit. I buzzed a random number. I was expecting an inquiry, since it was a nice, respectable neighborhood. But to my surprise, the door buzzed. I went quickly up stairs. Outside Ozge’s flat for a moment I thought that door too had been shut. Her neighbor, a middle-aged woman, had opened her door and was looking at me. She said something in Turkish I couldn’t catch. “Ozge çalışiyor,” I said. Ozge is working. She said something again, but in a kind of gentle, warning way, she didn’t sound angry. Desperately, I wished her good day, and tried the door. It was still open. I went inside and closed the door, breathing in relief.

I felt a wild, falling feeling, like everything coming down. The woman would complain, maybe even call the police. I would get Ozge in trouble, maybe even thrown out of her flat for having strange men around. Ozge would be angry for my causing trouble. “Why couldn’t you just wait?” I could hear her saying.

Jesus. I felt like a kid, waiting for his parents to come home and find out he’s broken the window. Settle down, it’s alright. I had a smoke, and sat down. The cat had awakened when I came in, but now settled back in her spot on the sofa. My partner in crime.

A while later, I went into the bedroom, closed the door and laid down. I fell asleep and when I finally awoke it was after five o’clock. I passed the plant box in the hall way and saw the dirt around it, and remembered Ozge asking me to hoover. I found the vacuum in the spare room, which she used as a study, plugged the vacuum. It was really easy and fast. The job was done. It hadn’t been a completely unproductive day. I went to the bedroom, and careful to shut the door, had a nap.

******

That evening Ozge had to work on her translations, but didn’t feel like it. Her father called and she talked for him for a while. For her master’s she had to come up with an idea on how to use an old Ottoman school that had been built by the great 16th Century architect, Mimar Sinan. He was considered in his time the Michaelangelo of the East, for he built some of the most important mosques in Turkey, and even in Bulgaria and the Ukraine. Ozge told me about him after she hung up with her father. Her father was a retired museum curator.

“He suggested that the school be used to showcase the style of Mimar Sinan, a kind of exhibition,” Ozge said. “You know, he used to design everything in miniature before he built the buildings.”

We were sitting on the sofa. Ozge had brought some beer home. I’d drunk most of it, but now she had some of mine. On Youtube, we’d found some George Carlin, and Ozge was comparing him to a certain Turkish comedian who had a similar style. Kedi Hanim was sleeping.

“I think she might be ill,” Ozge said, stroking the cat. She sighed. “Uuff! I checked with friends. It’s going to cost a fortune to get all of her shots, and this is right before payday. But she needs them as soon as possible. She has lice. You see?” She pointed to some tiny black dots on Kedi Hanim’s belly.”

Ozge sighed again. “Let’s lie down,” she said. We stretched out on the sofa, careful of the cat.

“Your two girls are tired, your two cats,” Ozge purred, her head on my chest.

Soon they were both asleep.

James Tressler was a reporter for The Times-Standard. His latest novel, “The Lost Coast D.A.,” is currently available at lulu.com. He lives in Istanbul.