He got up, standing motionless and abashed before her clear, questioning look. Jesus Christ, he thought, we are married after all. But she walked by him on her sensible flats and suddenly seemed so unreasonably foreign, as if he had never held her in his arms. But it’s not my fault, he thought, with a smoldering, helpless anger. Was it my fault it didn’t amount to anything?

He stared at the closed door and then noticed the cat under the desk, following him with its predatory stare. It was lying there as if hunting for mice, motionless and in patient suspense. He stood totally still in the middle of the floor, feeling the same preying watchfulness fill his own senses. He took a step toward the creature, which hunched its back and hissed quietly. Then he looked for something to smack it with, but just as he took his eyes off it, the cat raced over and jumped out of one of the open windows. He shut the windows in all three rooms, one after the other, and then walked out to check if the front and kitchen doors were locked. Leaning against the kitchen counter he watched his wife. She was putting meat through the grinder and catching it in her hands, and leading it into a bowl as it came creeping out of the little holes like long, bright worms.

Keeping her eyes on her work, she said, ‘Where did the cat go?’

He shrugged: ‘How should I know?’

She looked up quickly: ‘You let it out,’ she said. Her voice trembled slightly with anger.

‘Oh, you have cat on the brain,’ he said, attempting a laugh.

She washed her hands and dried them carefully, finger by finger, as if she was putting on gloves.

‘Go and get it,’ she said calmly.

He glanced away. He wanted to say something. There was a lump stuck in his throat, as if he was about to cry. What is the problem? he thought. It’s almost like she hates me. With a helpless look he walked past her and out of the kitchen.