The cat is such a perfect symbol of beauty and superiority that

Host: The apartment was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock and the occasional flick of a tail brushing across the couch. The evening light bled through the curtains in molten amber streaks, pooling lazily on the hardwood floor where a cat — sleek, indifferent, divine — stretched like a monarch in exile.

Jack sat in an armchair, a glass of red wine in hand, watching the animal with the intensity of a philosopher studying God. Jeeny was perched by the window, sketchbook open, the faint scratching of her pencil the only sound breaking the stillness.

On the small table between them lay a tattered volume — Lovecraft’s essays — opened to a passage marked in dark ink:
“The cat is such a perfect symbol of beauty and superiority that it seems scarcely possible for any true aesthete and civilised cynic to do other than worship it.”

Jack: “He wasn’t wrong.”

Jeeny: “Lovecraft rarely was — when he wasn’t afraid of everything else.”

Host: The cat flicked an ear, unbothered by human conversation.

Jack: “Look at it — absolute confidence without effort. It doesn’t chase approval, doesn’t beg. It moves like it already owns the world.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe it does. Or maybe we gave it the crown because we needed something beautiful to bow to.”

Jack: “No. We bow because it reminds us what we lost — grace without apology.”

Host: He leaned forward, his voice low, his words as deliberate as the cat’s movements.

Jack: “That’s what Lovecraft meant. The cat isn’t just beauty — it’s superiority. The perfect balance of disdain and serenity. It doesn’t need us, and that’s why we worship it.”

Jeeny: “So you admire it because it doesn’t care?”

Jack: “Exactly. Detachment is the final form of elegance.”

Jeeny: “Or the first form of loneliness.”

Host: Her eyes lifted from the page, catching his — soft brown meeting steel grey. The cat shifted, curling in on itself, purring faintly, as though acknowledging her.

Jeeny: “You call it superiority; I call it survival. The cat learned how to need without appearing weak.”

Jack: “So did most people. They just don’t do it as beautifully.”

Jeeny: “You think beauty comes from indifference?”

Jack: “From control. From knowing you’re complete before anyone looks at you.”

Host: He said it like someone who had been incomplete for a long time.

Jeeny: “That’s not beauty, Jack. That’s armor.”

Jack: “Armor can shine too.”

Host: The cat yawned, its mouth opening in a perfect, silent display of feline disdain. Its golden eyes blinked at them — slow, deliberate, superior — before it turned away, curling again into a ball of deliberate dismissal.

Jeeny: “You know, I’ve always thought cats are just artists in another form. They create moods, not meaning.”

Jack: “Exactly. They’re aesthetic, not emotional. They don’t explain themselves. That’s what separates them from dogs — and from people.”

Jeeny: “And from you?”

Jack: (grinning) “I wish.”

Jeeny: “No, you don’t. You crave to be understood — that’s the opposite of a cat.”

Jack: “Understanding is overrated. Admiration lasts longer.”

Host: She set her pencil down, closing her sketchbook slowly, as if sealing in a thought.

Jeeny: “That’s why you admire Lovecraft. He mistook detachment for divinity.”

Jack: “And you’d rather call it humanity.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s what it is. The cat’s beauty is effortless, yes. But our beauty comes from the effort. From the flaws. From wanting connection even when it breaks us.”

Host: The cat rose, stretched again, and jumped gracefully onto the table, brushing against the old book. It sat directly on Lovecraft’s words — as though claiming them.

Jack: “See? It doesn’t even respect the author. It just assumes the throne.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s reminding us that all worship is projection.”

Jack: “You’re saying we made gods out of creatures that simply exist?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because existence, without justification, terrifies us.”

Host: Jack took a sip of wine, his gaze still fixed on the cat — its calm, its arrogance, its impossible stillness.

Jack: “Maybe superiority isn’t about power. Maybe it’s about freedom — the ability to be untouched by chaos.”

Jeeny: “Then the cat isn’t free, Jack. It’s bound by its own perfection. Look at it — it can’t even fall without turning it into art.”

Jack: (chuckling) “So you pity it?”

Jeeny: “No. I just recognize that the price of perfection is solitude.”

Host: Her words hung in the air — like smoke rising from an invisible flame. The cat’s tail twitched once, dismissively, as if to confirm her point.

Jack: “You know, for someone who defends imperfection, you sure draw everything with precision.”

Jeeny: “And you, for someone who worships detachment, spend a lot of time explaining it.”

Host: The light dimmed as dusk fell — the city outside glowing through the window in muted shades of gold and blue. The cat watched it all from the table, unblinking, a silent witness to human contradictions.

Jack: “Lovecraft saw the cat as the ultimate aesthete — a creature beyond need, above fear. A civilized cynic’s idol. Maybe he was just describing the artist — someone cursed to see beauty in everything and belong to nothing.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he was describing the lonely heart — dressing solitude up as superiority so it would hurt less.”

Host: The cat leapt gracefully to the floor, padding toward the window. It stopped for a moment, staring out at the night — then, without hesitation, disappeared through the half-open curtain.

Silence returned. Only the faint ticking of the clock and the echo of their conversation remained.

Jack: “And just like that — gone. No goodbye. No explanation.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it beautiful.”

Jack: “And unbearable.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe both are the same thing.”

Host: He turned toward her, eyes lingering — caught between admiration and recognition.

Jack: “You think that’s why we love what we can’t own?”

Jeeny: “Because it reminds us we’re still capable of reverence.”

Host: She smiled then, faint and knowing — the kind of smile the cat might’ve approved of.

The last of the light faded. The empty room seemed fuller somehow, echoing with the ghost of paws and poetry.

And as the night deepened, Jack whispered to no one in particular:

Jack: “The cat doesn’t seek worship. It simply exists — and we kneel because we remember how rare that is.”

Host: Jeeny didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

The silence purred.

And somewhere in that silence — between beauty and superiority, longing and detachment —
they both understood what Lovecraft had meant:

That the cat, in its perfect self-possession,
was not just a symbol of art —
but the mirror of every soul
that loved beauty
and refused to belong to it.