It's Still Life

The Garage Saga
Or: The Cat, The Porsche, & Grand Theft Auto

The Old Woman stands in her tidy, overly-organised garage,
phone to her ear,
staring at her car that hasn’t moved in a month.
On her screen, the tracker app glows:

THEFT WARNING!

A voice crackles through:

“Ma’am, our system shows your vehicle is stolen
and it’s moving through… Sussex.
At speed.
Are you certain it’s in your garage?”

The old woman replies, dry as desert air,
patience wearing thinner than winter light:

“I am in Sussex. My car is in Sussex.This is my garage, my freezer, my shelves of tinned Italian tomatoes, and dolphin-friendly tuna in water — it’s here. My car. In the garage. Behind a locked door. Minded by cameras.”

The cat …
(not hers, never hers) …
is perched on the Porsche’s roof
like a smug, furry ornament, and says:

“I told you so. It’s too flashy.
Should’ve bought a Lada.
No one tracks a Lada.
No one steals a Lada.
Sometimes, no one even notices the Lada.
It’s the perfect car.”

It’s a stand-off,
and days later, the tracker signal
still ghosts through the neighbourhood —

in and around the old Worth monastery,
it slips under the fence at the cemetery,
lingers an hour or so at the fishmonger’s.

The Old Woman’s eyes narrow.
She points a finger, steady as law.

“Cough it up, cat.
My car’s tracker fob.
Now.”

The cat blinks, slow.
“I have no idea —”

“You’re transmitting,” she says.
“Sending out 911 signals.”

A pause. Tail-tip flick,
“Hypothetically,” he ventures,
“if a philosopher borrowed a device
to test whether ownership is a construct…”

Her palm stays open.
The cat continues

“… and if we stopped believing in the rules
of ‘mine’ and ‘yours’, would the world fall apart,
or would we realise those rules
were never ‘real’ to begin with?”

Silence hangs between them,
dust motes drifting in the still air.

With a sigh that carries the weight of foiled genius,
he coughs,
delicately,
and into her hand drops the fob,
black, damp and gleaming.

“It was research,” he mutters.
“And your glovebox smells of old maps and Polo mints.”

She wipes the fob clean.
“No pâté for a week.”

His gasp fills the garage.
“Cruelty! I was saving you
from luxury automotive mindlessness!”

Outside, winter stays cold,
snowy and blowy.
Inside, the Porsche sleeps, peacefully.

But the old woman is already walking away,
a faint smile touching her lips
because a nemesis this brilliant,
this fluffy,
is almost a kind of gift.

The cat whispers, as if to the car:
“You’re doing great, sweetie.
Live your truth.
Be stolen if you want to.
You’re more than just a pretty face.”