Cameo

She read about the cats with cameras attached to their collars and couldn't resist the idea of being a voyeur to her beloved's feline activities. She removed his black leather silver-studded collar while he was asleep and replaced it with an identical one. Except this one had a very tiny camera in place of the fourth stud from the buckle.

After a week, she had a day off to view the pussy-footage. She mixed up her favorite beverage of half coffee and half Bailey's Irish cream, put on her magenta fuzzy hysteria-socks and curled up on her big blue couch with her laptop.

Okay, porch, tires, garbage cans, blackness. Blackness, blackness. Boy, is this bo-ring. She accelerated the speed. She turned on the tinkly jazz station. This could be the big week of my tiger stalking nothing. Not even a spider or an ant, let alone a mouse. Shit, this is worse than watching sports. She groaned.

Oops. Where are we now? She muttered backing up and slowing down. A kitchen, I recognize those kitchen chair legs. Oh my god that star-burst yellow linoleum is Doris' kitchen. Her heart started beating hard, adrenalin rushing. Doris is feeding him? That bitch. Wet food, too. What an idiot. Oh there's Doris what the hell is she wearing? A pink slinky bathrobe, nice. She could see Doris' red toenails poking out of pink fuzzy slippers. "Are you going to wait until later or try it again now, my prince charming", said Doris. Who is she talking to? Is she talking to my Romeo? Her pulse was a loud banging in her ears. Her face flushed. What day was this, Tuesday? What time was it? Two thirty seven PM. She's not speaking to my Romeo, she's talking to a hairy leg. I know that snake. That's my husband's ankle tattoo. That's my husband, Max. There he is - Maxwell Samuel Davies sitting at the table bare-chested in his boxers. Nice work, Romeo.