Today's writing

Of course I know what he’s doing. He’s probably fantasizing about James Bond while he does it. Listen, a cat knows these things. It’s in the way he moves, desperate. It’s in the way he breathes, like there’s glass shards in his throat. It’s different from when he was with her. It’s almost like he’s in pain. I almost feel sorry for him. But when he takes a tissue from the nightstand and holds it in a strategic way, I know better. I don’t bother to leave the room, though. Why should I leave? He’s the pervert.