Sometimes, after staying out all night, she wants to sleep all day, on my bed. Seeds tangled in her fur, she curls up and wraps a paw over her eyes. Don't bother me, I'll groom later.
Sometimes if I wait, she will come and whisk her face against the window, or press her outstretched front legs on the door latch while she stands two legs on the back of a stuffed chair at the entrance. When I can wait up no longer, I get ready for bed, her whereabouts unknown. After I've brushed my teeth and am ready to shut the lights, I check one more time at the front window. I step out in the night and call her. I am grateful she has drug me into the night, whether the sky be cloaked in fog or full of stars, I feel the night, the balm of air. I call to her again. I hear the waves crashing on the rocks below. This is the night she stays out in.
It is fortunate that we have no neighbors to hear my plaintive meow. Later, as I am falling asleep, I may hear meowing and see her silhouette through the skylight. That doesn't mean if I go out into the night that she will climb down off the Spanish tiles of the roof or come inside. But we play that game too, me barefoot in my nightie, pleading to a cat on the roof.
Like tonight, she came to the door and it was opened for her and she ran off into the forest. What a tease. I am waiting for the cat to come home, but I think I'll go brush my teeth and then check one more time...later.