David walks. It's cold and wet in New York this time of year, but he walks anyway. He goes in places many people don't, passing homeless people and laying blessings upon them as they huddle, their backs to the wall.
His life is getting complicated. Especially with Patrick. He doesn't know how to deal with it, the right way to approach him to make sure that he's doing okay, to try and help him cope. He wishes he had some sort of hedonistic escape, or that he dared to waver from his personal doctrine enough to try it. In the mean time he pares down his diet, going back to bread and water like he used to do in the old days, when things were straightforward. He still cooks lavish things for his friends, and gives food away to the hungry, but he denies himself, until he can find some meaning in the past events.
As he passes an alley, a pitiful wail stops him. A half-starved kitten huddles in the meager shelter of a rubbish bin, its fur sodden, ginger stripes looking sad and pathetic. David stops, and the thing looks up at him and mews again. The way it looks at him reminds him of Patrick, all tufty red fur and enormous eyes, and he can't pass it by. David sits down just inside the alley, pulling the kitten to him and tucking it inside his coat, protecting it from the weather. Stroking it gently, he smiles properly for what feels like the first time in a long time when it starts to purr like an engine, and he tells it the story of the Good Samaritan as the rain drips down his neck and off his nose.
Sorry guys. I'm not sorry at all. I've added to our menagerie. Bryn won't take long to house train, I'm sure.