I look in the mirror and see an all too familiar face staring back at me. The dark milk-chocolate skin, light hazel eyes with a darker brown rim around the irises. Tight curry black hair that's cut short, and a closely shaved mustache and goatee. The loose, dull red shirt with a white printed star on the front of it, and the baggy khaki shorts that are almost an everyday outfit.

Today's a casual day. Probably going to take a walk down town or wonder through the little streets of Valencia Italy. It will be a day dedicated to writing, away from work. I am proved correct when my friend strolls over to the bed and sits down by the worn out tennis shoes that are always ready for wearing.

Only after putting on the shoes, grabbing a spiral notebook, and opening the door does he stop when I meow irritatedly. He turns around and smiles at me widely. "Of course!" He exclaims, shutting the door again and setting the notebook and pen on the kitchen counter in the apartment as he starts to shuffle around for my breakfast. "How could I forget you Betty?"

I nod defiantly, wondering the same exact thing. How could have he forgotten me? I mean, I am his only true obligation. But of course he is only a human which means that he is not blessed with the grace and mindfulness of a cat. Smirking inwardly at this I monitor the work that Cole does as he opens a can of tuna and dumps the whole thing into an empty, washed out butter dish.

One of the all too familiar hands that I have known all of my life, sets the light grey dish in front of me, on the counter right behind the sink. After setting down the dish the hand reaches up to my head and scratches me behind the ears. Purring I allow myself to forgive my companion for his small mistake.

All too soon it seems, the caressing hand is gone and I look up just to catch the door closing with a loud click. My ear twitches at a small vespa speeding down the street bellow my apartment and I duck my head back down and focus intently on my meal.

I lap the last bit of juice from the depths of the dish and then stand gracefully. Leaping elegantly from the counter to the living room couch only a distance of five or so feet away. Slinking along the back of the long piece of short furniture I get to the end and sit. My thoughts slip to the decision between whether I should jump to the windowsill from where I am or go to the ground and then back up again. Making up my mind I chose the first, resolving that it takes less effort than the later.

The sill of the window is my perch for the day. A breeze is allowed through the open window and I take in all the scents of cigarette smoke, pasta, freshly picked fruits and vegetables, as well as the leather venders and the musty sent of too many people packed together on too narrow of a street. And the tourists of course, have their own odor of sweat from walking around so much and perfume that is not sold in Valencia, or anywhere else in Italy for that fact.

Aside from the smells that I am as use to as the perch that I am nestled on right now, there are the sounds. What may be loud to others is a pleasant drone of hundreds of human voices, the Italian chatter from the caf� down the street, the tourists wandering around with their slow Italian or slow English as they try to get some person to tell them the information that they want to know and to tell them in a way in which they will be able to understand it. There is the tapping and thumping of feet on pavement and the hum of small vehicles making their way down the constricted streets and winding their way through the crowd. Even the clicking of bicycle chains is part of the music in which I fall slowly asleep to.

Soft sunlight filters through the window and falls around me in waves, some being absorbed by my silk black coat and rare piece that are able to escape and lap around my crouched form until they are pulled in as well. Warmth radiates from me, but does not escape into the air, instead though, it hovers around me seeming as to not want to get lost in the sea of space.

Comfortable and content I purr, though nobody but myself is there to enjoy it. I am in a place of complete peace. There are no worries that claw at my relaxed and fluid mind. I know that my comrade is wandering those streets bellow me somewhere, searching for something which he may never find. But, find it or no, he always comes back to me. Back to this little apartment on the fourth story of an old dry, peeling, grey painted building.

There is another soft rustle as a breeze flows through the window and rustle the white/grey drapes on either side of the window, and then the light flitter of paper as it is pushed from the dinning room table and floats almost silently to the ground where it settles once again undisturbed.

My eyes are still closed, my breathing slow and timed rhythmically. My ears twitch with the never ending noises of the street bellow, my nose shuddering with the hundreds of scents which come to me from the air that floats in from outside. It is yet again another day, no different than any of the others, but different is not what matters to me, peace is what the day brings and that is what makes each identical day worth living.