At least that is what she says. I don’t know if I’ll let her get away with such humility, but we’ll see.

“What about the cats?” Tony interjects.

“Well, you have to put them in perspective with everything else like the hair bun and the goldfish.”

“I think you should just talk about the cats. It is both sweet and crazy. Living alone with her ‘family’ of kitties, over-running the house. A living, breathing stereotype.”

“Since you put it that way,” I rebut, “I will not discuss them. I love her and do not wish to have people draw the wrong conclusion. Her cats are a necessary part of her nature, her kindness. Giving shelter to the weak. Finding love and fulfillment from the world’s strays. Mother Teresa had her orphans. Cindy has her cats.”

Tony turns to leave, waving the tails of his suit coat has he exits. I’m glad he’s gone because he is incapable of appreciating her. (Appreciating anything but himself, really.) I, on the other hand, find it impossible not to.

So, to begin at the beginning. Her late husband coached some academic teams at my school. He had developed an aura of being cool. A head thick with gray hair. Handsome and funny. I decided we should be friends. He agreed to direct me in my performance of a Dorothy Parker piece. One afternoon he brought along Cindy so she could offer her advice. It was then that I realized that it was she that I should know.

Shortly after that first meeting we were confessing our lives to one another at a little cafe in New York City. We had run away together (or so her husband and my mother assumed). We had no intention of returning.

When Cindy was a young girl she was accosted by a man who called her over to his car and showed her his genitals. This was not uncommon because Cindy was gorgeous and most men are pigs. She had long, sandy hair. A sweet, doe-eyed face. And (most importantly) large, well-endowed breasts. She was also a member of MENSA, but men didn’t seem to care about that. They just wanted to get in her pants.

I told Cindy about my love of men. She was sympathetic, enthusiastic, and only became obsessed as time progressed. But that is a different story. For now it will suffice to say that as a girl she attracted all of the straight men, but when she got older she seemed to entice all those who weren’t.

There is a lot to tell about my history with this remarkable woman. For now I simply need you to understand this one image. I believe once I explain it you will understand her beauty. Cindy has the power to sustain lives. She did it for her husband, she did it for Luke, and she did it for me. The only problem is that sometimes the world likes to play hell with your good intentions. Whenever this happened to Cindy she felt guilty because she didn’t have the power of a god. She thought this meant she was lacking. Which is exactly the reason she told me to say that “she meant well.”

You see, her husband was ill, and Luke was out of his mind. (And lately he’s proved himself to be a self-absorbed, immature asshole who doesn’t deserve any more mention in this tale. Consider him ex-communicated.) She sustained them, helped them flourish, but like I said, they got away. Sort of like her businesses she built from scratch which her parents took over and destroyed. But all of this requires too much for you to really understand. That’s why I want you to focus on the fish.

Cindy inherited a goldfish from a raffle. It was still bite-sized and living in a plastic bag when she received it. 10 years later it had become a great, white monster. Moby Dick in a tank. An impossible event.

This tank was an algae-filled anathema to her “friends.” They could not see the miracle of the fish. One day they tried to clean it, and oops: poison. The fish was dead. An accident got rid of her finest achievement.

And yet, Cindy endures. And so may we all.