Aminals.
Sadie wraps her small, grey body around my wrist like an armwarmer, a fluffy doughnut that purrs and scratches as it squirms for purchase against crooked fingers. Barney cares for nothing if a curled cow tendon is within reach. I stare longingly at my stack of style books, desperately wishing to read but feeling a betrayer of the droll sitcom rerun that acts as a barbituate against yet another in a long line of stressful days.

Work is fine. Burning Man was fine. My relationship is fine. The bills have been paid. Everything seems perfectly in balance, almost to my detriment. Do I thrive on conflict?

Barney works the tendon as if his life depends on it. Nothing distracts him, save an explosive noise or the sound of my voice (and even then, only for a few precious seconds). What would I give for that focus and intent? I am drifting, but it feels like work. Sadie is mistress only to her own desires, but is she lonely? Did she not betray her self-confidence only minutes ago, coiled like a serpent around my forearm?

I'm going to read with the TV on.