The sunbeam treaty

Autumn narrows the café's great sunbeam to a single golden stripe, and the claims are filed at once: Kuro, by ancient treaty; Yutju, by temperament; and a newcomer — Yuzu, a rabbit from the shrine hedge, with sun-warmed fur and no concept whatever of queueing.

The standoff lasts a full morning: cat, Matji and rabbit arranged around the stripe like nations at a border, each pretending the others are weather.

The settlement, when it comes, is elegant. The sunbeam moves; therefore the seating shall rotate with it. Morning end to Kuro, midday to the rabbit, afternoon to Yutju, joint occupancy during transitions. Ito-san, solemnly summoned, copies it into his notebook and stamps it. His second-favourite case of all time.

By winter the treaty is dead, of course — all three sleep in one heap in the middle, and the stamp has been repurposed as a paperweight. Some agreements, I have noticed, succeed by failing.