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October 11, 2002 behind walls "What happened here?"  She traced her slender index finger the length of the brown-purple scar running from pubis to navel. "Knife fight," I answered. "Cool."  She purred when she spoke. Everything about her was feline.  She rolled out of bed and walked into the bathoom, stealthy and naked.  I gazed at the ceiling and thought about those made-for-TV movies in which the woman leaves the love-making bed and walks to the bathroom wrapping herself in the bedclothes, toga-style.  I was relieved this one didn't.  I dislike disorder. I ran my own finger down the scar.  One drunken Christmas Eve, my appendix ruptured and I became septic.  The doctor gutted me like a trout. I was on my side now, near the edge of the bed.  The day before, I had noticed a mousehole in the baseboard.  It was a perfect arch, clean lines, architecturally sound.  I could have sworn the little arch had crown molding. She was still in the bathroom making a scratching sound.  Was she using a catbox?  I grabbed a Magic Marker from the drawer and crawled to the mousehole. J-E-R-R-Y. It made the hole a home.

©  2002 by the beastmaster