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"I can't sleep with her next to me," I'd protested.

And, predictably, Elsa had looked wounded and said, "Love me, love my cat."

So I loved her cat. I mean, how could I not?

And a few days later:

"I can't sleep with the TV on," I said. "I'm sorry. I've tried."

"Okay, Julie," said Elsa reasonably. "That's fair."

And she turned the TV off, even though that got her to sleep quickets.

And a few days later:

"I can't sleep," I said. "It's just a thing. Go back to bed."

And she looked at me, and then she went back to bed as I'd asked, and she fell asleep. And I looked at her, for a while. So pretty. Not beautiful; pretty, lovely in a way you could hold next to you and cherish as warm and human. I love her. I love her freckles, and her handwriting, and her habit of talking about work.

But I just can't sleep with her next to me.