At home I slip out of the jeans and button-down shirt I wore to dinner and get comfortable—flannel boxers and a T-shirt. I go into the second bedroom, which I have set up as an office. There’s an old porcelain-topped table my grandmother once owned that I use as my desk, a simple wooden chair from IKEA painted orange alongside it. It’s where I had thought I would one day write the great American novel. I’m still waiting for that day to come.
Ezra, my fat orange tabby, waddles along behind me. I call him my shadow because he follows me wherever I go. He missed the memo about cats being independent. He hops up on the couch, swishes his tail a couple of times, and then curls into a ball. In seconds he’s snoring. I have lived with no other male longer than Ezra. In July, we celebrate eight ye
