This time

Twenty cats.
That's how many the house I live in now has.
If you were to ask me this question yesterday, my answer would be 17.
Twenty cats with twenty variations, and as Amy puts it, "If you stay around long enough, you'll see every one of them has their own personality."
I've been here almost a month now, and while I haven't quite been able to separate all 20, It is getting easier to know some of their names.
The album I'm listening to right now, is called "Washed out." If you've ever seen the IFC series, "Portlandia," It's the opening theme song. That's what I've read at least. I haven't seen it.
Sitting in a cardboard box in the corner is Pepper. As I move closer to take a look, Pepper does her best to cover and protect her litter with her two front paws.
This is my first time seeing a litter of kittens. This is my first time seeing a litter of anything really. If I didn't know any better, you know, with a quick look, I'd say they look more like tiny mice then baby kittens. I reach down to try and pick one up, but am greeted with a hiss from a protective mother.
Standing over Pepper, and looking down over four tiny kittens, I'm reminded of the simple fact that I fucking hate cats, right? At least that's what I've told myself my entire young adult life. It used to be an anecdote over Thanksgiving dinners or New Year's eve parties. Now I stand here fixated, fascinated really. I can't seem to take my eyes off of this mother who's just gave birth to four tiny creatures, breathing, alive.

Miss River sends me a text message, wanting to know why I've been such a fucking liar. My phone lights up and her text reads, "Why are you such a lying asshole?"
The frost from the cold December air covers my android phone. 
"I don't know." I write back. 
Where I am right now is walking around Cedar City, Utah because I have nothing do to. I walk past Southern Utah University and take a left at a stop light, checking my phone for messages every 1-2 minutes. 
During the next three blocks, my phone turns bright, while message after message lights across my screen. 
"I don't want you." 
"I don't need you." 
"I'm seeing someone." 
Right now my heart is down to my knees and my knees are up to my chest, and every message I read, every message from this woman I love so much, cripples my body and moves me towards the sidewalk. 
"I'm sorry." I write.
"I love you." I write.
A minute or so later River sends me a message back.
"I don't love you." She says. 
Where I am right now is walking up the cold, hard sidewalk, walking back home, towards a place where memories of River are warm and soft. 
A minute goes by and there's no message from River. The electronic sign from the Bank of Utah tells me it's 17 degrees outside. How I feel is numb. The string from the north wind no longer burns my face. 
All around me is nothing but frozen breath and passing cars and Christmas lights. 
I reach my front steps and my phone vibrates. 
"Heading to the shower, than off to the boyfriends house." She writes. 
This is the last things she's ever said to me since.