The Favorite Game by Leonard Cohen

cigarettes were crushed. He straightened one out and lit it for her. She blew a mouthful of smoke into the morning.
    “Smoking with nothing on is so — so luxurious.”
    She shivered over the word. He kissed the nape of her neck and they resumed their idle watch in the window.
    “Cold?”
    “I’d like to stay for a year,” she said.
    “That’s called marriage.”
    “Now don’t get all frightened and prickly.”
    A very important thing happened.
    They caught sight of an old man in an oversize raincoat standing in a doorway across the street, pressed against the door as if he were hiding.
    They decided to watch him, just to see what he did.
    He leaned forward, looked up and down the street, and satisfied that it was empty, gathered the folds of his raincoat around him like a cape and stepped out on the sidewalk.
    Tamara flicked a roll of ashes out the window. It fell like a feather and then disintegrated in the rising wind. Breavman watched the small gesture.
    “I can’t stand how beautiful your body is.”
    She smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder.
    The old man in the swaddling coat kneeled and peered under a parked car. He got up, brushed his knees, and looked around.
    The wind moved in her hair, detaching and floating a wisp. She squeezed her arm between them and flicked the butt. He flicked his out too. They fell like tiny doomed parachutists.
    Then, as if the butts were a signal, everything began to happen faster.
    The sun jelled suddenly between two buildings, intensely darkening the charade of chimneys.
    A citizen climbed into his car and drove away.
    A cat appeared a few feet from where the old man was standing and crossed in front of him, proud, starved, and muscular. With a flurry of folds the old man leaped after the animal. Effortlessly, the cat changed its direction and softly padded down stone stairs to a cellar entrance. The man coughed and followed, stooped, baffled, and climbed back to the street empty-handed.
    They had watched him idly, as people watch water, but now they looked hard.
    “You’ve got gooseflesh, Tamara.”
    She refastened a wisp of floating hair. He studied her fingers in the exercise. He remembered them on various parts of his body.
    He thought he would be content if he were condemned to live that moment over and over for the rest of his life. Tamara naked and young, her fingers weaving a lock of hair. The sun tangled in TV aerials and chimneys. The morning breeze whipping the mist from the mountain. A mysterious old man whose mystery he didn’t care to learn. Why should he go looking for better visions?
    He couldn’t make things happen.
    In the street the old man was lying on his stomach under the bumper of a car, grasping after a cat he had managed to corner between the kerb and the wheel. He kicked his feet in excitement, trying to get the cat by the hind legs, getting scratched and nipped. He finally succeeded. He extracted the cat from the shadows and held it above his head.
    The cat wriggled and convulsed like a pennant in a violent wind.
    “My God,” said Tamara. “What’s he doing with it?”
    They forgot each other and leaned out the window.
    The old man staggered under the struggle of the big cat, his face buried in his chest away from the threshing claws. He regained his footing. Wielding the cat as if it were an axe, his feet spread wide, he brought it down hard against the sidewalk. They could hear the head smash from their window. It convulsed like a landed fish.
    Tamara turned her head away.
    “What’s he doing now?” she wanted to be told.
    “He’s putting it in a bag.”
    The old man, kneeling beside the twitching cat, had produced a paper bag from out of his huge coat. He attempted to stuff the cat into it.
    “I’m sick,” said Tamara. She was hiding her face against his chest. “Can’t you do something?”
    It hadn’t occurred to Breavman that he could intrude into the action.
    “Hey you!”
    The old man looked up suddenly.
    “Oui!