There are substances in this world that reveal themselves slowly, and cheese is chief among them. Parmesan arrives at the counter in wedges, modest and unassuming, wrapped in clear plastic like any ordinary thing. But I have learned to read the signs.

The crinkle of that wrapper carries across hardwood floors with startling clarity. The gentle scrape of metal against aged wheel — a sound that suggests patience, craft, the slow accumulation of flavor over months I cannot count. By the time the first golden shavings fall, I am already stationed at the proper distance, neither begging nor retreating, simply present for what follows.

Gus approaches these moments differently. He positions himself near the action, confident in his proximity to providence. I prefer the living room sofa, where I can observe the entire operation while maintaining what humans call plausible deniability. We both know I am not asleep.

The offering comes as it always does — a small portion balanced on an open palm, the oils still visible on fingertips. Sharp, complex, worth the wait. There are cheeses that announce themselves from the moment they enter the house, and there are cheeses that whisper. Parmesan does neither. It simply is, and that is enough.

~P.W.