My cat won’t eat alone. I too prefer company when using the sharpened ends of my bones to turn someone else’s body into my body. So I sit on the floor with my diner. We chew. He purrs like he hasn’t eaten all day. He purrs like I might leave if his gratitude isn’t a failing exhaust system. Like I might pull away the fingers that fill the gaps between his vertebrae. I wonder how he remembers to swallow, or spit, or manage his tongue when I’m away. I am not patient, but I will sit on the floor twice a day so the cat can eat. I know gratitude and hunger. I know empty eyes and a full plate. I know mouth shut, waiting for skin. I do not know how to fast.