She sat and peeled her orange, and he crouched at his dish, his mouth making moist sound effects. He looked back over his shoulder, as if ensuring she was doing what she was scheduled to do. Their regimen had him starting first and finishing first. Then and only then would he tiptoe into her space, step between her soft, shaven legs, and allow her the glory of petting him, of loving him.
And every weekday morning, she would place an orange section in her mouth, only to make that little, "Tpff" spitting sound with lips and tongue—the invisible, stray cat hair clinging to the citrus.
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