Noon Encounter
This is my time. Every leaf aglow, every split edge catching light like stained glass. I’m working hard, turning sunshine into sugar. It’s glamorous and efficient.
The sun climbs up the sky, blazing like it owns the place. (To be fair, it kind of does.)
Then I hear it… thump…thump…thump….thump…
She’s here.
The human calls her Tuna Turner. But really, Miss Tuna is the bane of my existence.
She moves like she owns the place, a diva, tail flicking with villainous confidence. The problem is, she loves my sunbeam.
The one I’ve been cultivating all morning.
She flops into it with a dramatic sigh, stretching so far that her paw grazes one of my leaves. I freeze.
She looks at me with that smug, slow blink, as if to say,
“Relax, leaf-face. There’s enough light for both of us.”
For a moment, I imagine unfurling a new leaf just to shade her out.
But I’m better than that. I’m a plant of peace.
It’s always this dance between us. She sheds…I photosynthesize.
Outside, the city hums. Inside, we nap.
One of us serene and chlorophyll-rich,
the other dreaming of chasing ghosts in the hallway.
The sunbeam shifts again, inching across the floor.
I win a little more light back.
Victory, soft and warm.