Self care

He sits on the edge of her bed as if a soldier; legs spread, elbow on knee, chopping at the air with his cigarette.  Her cat rubs itself against his legs, meowing quietly, sniffing at the heavy functionality of his boots.  

"Those fucking tories," he says.  "And they just get away with it because no one cares."

She is changing out of her work clothes, shimmying the dark skirt over her hips, standing in her bra and pants.

"I don't want to talk about it right now."

"I like those," he says, leaning further forwards.  He smells faintly of sweat. The cat meows.

"I've got to go for a run.  Then I want to do my meditation.  I've had a long day.  I need to get some new trainers," she says, feeling him looking at her arse as she bends to pull up her leggings.

"Running: that's you, isn`t it?  I don't know why you read this stuff, either." He flicks through a fashion magazine, lights another cigarette.  "Things we'll never afford. 'Cassie wears shoes by Maison Margiela'."

You understand nothing, she thinks.  You are not solid.  You are unmoving.  You are not hurting.

The cat walks away, ignored.