The White Strand

A thump on the floor above unlocked my legs. Someone had entered the kitchen. Target identified near the low table: a pale, tangled string dropped on the rug. Is it edible? I clamped my jaws across the white curl. Not string. A cold strand of cooked noodle. Soft, slippery, coated in oily starch. I dragged it between my teeth with a wet snap and swallowed the entire length in two bites. Heavy footsteps echoed coming closer. I snapped instantly rigid, front claws poised in mid-air over the damp mark.