He'd dimmed the lamps, lowered the Venetian blinds, closed for business. But she’d come up the fire escape, in through the window; just the way his cat used to. Seeing her there, standing over him, wearing a black knit dress, a white patch, an orchid pinned at the breast, he saw that she was like his cat in other ways, too. He tried to stand up from his swivel chair, but she pushed him down, pounced, then curled up on his lap. The chair held them both, pawing and purring. Yes, curiously, she was like his cat in many ways.