He’s tired; more tired than usual these days, and for good reason.
After brief but intense negotiations with the furball for space in my lap, he moves kitty to the right and settles his head against my loungewear-clad left thigh with a drowsy sigh.
Upon seeing his eyes close and his body relax, I go back to reading Nancy Mitford’s take on Voltaire, while he drifts toward sleep.
But when his breathing changes, it is not to the shallow intakes and even exhalations of slumber I expect to hear; rather, my auditory attention is captured by what sounds like a series of deep inhalations followed by long-held breaths slowly released.
Peeking over my book jacket, I catch his glazed gaze as he inhales again.
Nose at the apex of my thighs, he nestles into an ecclesiastical insufflation.
Deep breath in…
I don’t need to ask the question; he sees it in my eyes and responds accordingly:
“I love the way you smell. You smell like . . . GIRL . . . and it drives me nuts.”