Close the door. No need to be quiet; for now, there is no one else here.

The lock on the door slides home with a satisfyingly solid click. Two sets of whiskers slide cautiously into view from behind the divider; they are followed moments later by four cautious, reddish-golden feline eyes.

They have registered that I am alone, and the cats bound toward me, purring, tails swishing, body language screaming "Pet me! Please! I've waited so long!" My keys drop on the kitchen table as I kneel down on the slick, chill green tiles. Tenzing nestles his angular head in my left hand, roar-purring his satisfaction at finally having me alone at last. Edmund is too excited to sit still, rubbing first one flank and then the other against my wiggling fingers, as if he's been waiting for everyone to leave so that he could re-mark me as being his.

They don't see the fact that I'm tired, nor do they care that when I got up to take Heather to work, my dark green bra could be seen under my cream-colored shirt. (No matter; Heather was the only human who saw.) All they know is that suddenly; at last; at long, long last, I am finally able to focus on them.

I am, after all, the center of their world. Whether I like it or not. They love Jeff, and they trust Jeff, but somewhere over the past few years I've gone from the stranger whom they chose at the Humane Society to their own personal mommy-cat.

Some people are innately able to inspire immediate trust in dogs. I've never had that. With cats it's different. For as long as I can remember, relating to cats was as simple as breathing. Present them with stillness, with calm, and they come to you.

My wallet and cell phone resting safely with my keys, I kick off my shoes and curl up, barefoot, on the couch. A few moments of stillness, and the cats mysteriously find themselves on the couch with me. Tenzing snuggles in the crook of an outstretched leg, draping his chin over my leg and vibrating it with his purring. Edmund crawls up onto my chest and lay his head against my neck.

Their tails thump, then swish, then twitch, then lay still.

The mommy-cat had banished all those chattering, tail-grabby human visitors back to wherever they belonged, and therefore, order was restored to the the world of the felines.

I spread my fingers and rake them against the grain of the fur on Tenzing's flank, and receive an appreciative bit of snuggling in return. Edmund reaches into my hair with his front paws, kneading both strands and air with his claws. My mind returns to thoughts of tending to the kitchen disaster that was geekfest, of catching up on the laundry that the guests created, of starting work on cleaning rooms that I didn't touch last week.

Since guests began arriving on Wednesday night, I've been too busy to cuddle with the cats in the way that they've come to expect. For the moment, it's easier to let the cats think that they're the only things on my mind. It's plain that I'm the only thing on theirs.