Fishing in Beirut

Aria bought chicken, peppers, and tomato puree to make a sauce. She had rice already, but needed milk. Curry powder and bread she nearly forgot, but then remembered, and went back down through the aisles and had to queue again. A tiny little kid stole a stranger’s juice at the checkout.
Dinner was going to be for four people. Herself and three others in her life, all of whom she loved. Laura was making salad, Marie was getting wine. She could send a text to Frank and that would be that.
The walk home took her past scaffolding and bars. It was only five minutes, but she heard six different tongues. Builders, drinkers, loiterers on the street; the multicultural city, functioning as one.
She pushed in the front door, the wood expanding occasionally, and needing to be forced. There was music coming from inside, and then she saw Laura and Marie, washing cutlery and singing.
“Well, I got it. A little girl stole some guy’s juice just after he paid for it.”
She put down her bags and stretched, feeling light in her head.
Movement to her right made her turn. A cat charged across the floorboards and jumped onto the sill. All three girls saw it simultaneously, the black feline streamline so alien in the flat. It stopped to lick its paws, and looked at Aria full on. Did it feel it was safe at the window and no longer need run?
They stared as it went about its business, cleaning, stretching, and eyeing the roof. Its whiskers twitched as it crinkled up its nose for some reason. Then it sneezed, sneezed again, and Aria laughed.
“It’s the curry powder. The smell must be crazy to a cat.”
The cat seemed to confirm this by sneezing again. Then it spilled itself out the window and was gone. Marie went to see if it was still down there, but there was nothing, just the bins and the courtyard and the steps. Aria unpacked the shopping and prepared to cook.