The cats live in our workshop. Somebody said one of the them was crushed under the shutter door. Nobody was entirely sure of the cat that somebody was talking about.
Was it the dirty face? Or not?
Or the one with muscle spasm?
What? Which one?
The one that got stuck in the car's engine? No?
What was the cat thinking? Or not?
Or wanted to? Or didn't have time.
Or the cat nearly did? Or too late?
I don't know if we were all talking about the same cat. Then we worked and worked. Until six. We said goodbye. And nobody talks about the cat anymore.
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