At the small table, at the secretaire abbatant, reading the news on the computer, read about pirates and drones delivering grainy pictures. Grain is digital, the times of Tri-X pan are gone now.
Read about Brexit and Irish problems, demanding their rights and charity with the same voice, just demanding.
Read, all the views of the differing publishers, the different hues the same events are depicted with.
The cat jumps up onto the knees, digging the claws into the the thinly clothed flesh to pull her weight onto the human knees. She rolls onto her back, she wants her fur stroked, and her head scratched. Loose cat hairs accumulate on the hand, and on the cloth of the trousers. The animal purrs, butting her head against the hand to demand more scratching.
Go to the kitchen to make a second cup of coffee, nearly tripping over the fawning cat. She wants food now. There is a half empty tin of cat food in the refrigerator, put half of the slimy stuff onto the cat's plate. She feeds, carefully. She prefers it warm, but it is straight from the fridge. Warming up food for the cat is not part of the deal. Replace the tin into the space in the refrigerator. Make yet another cup of coffee.
The notes done so far, the son rises. It is eight forty in the morning. He is not capable of speaking, he is still stuck in his teenage dreams. Make him an offer, an excursion to the cafe. He loves the cafe.
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