Summer mornings, spine unwilling to support me, knuckles
galled but brain bright as ever I dictate my novels from the chaise longue
beside the French windows. (Wintertime I transfer to its twin, beside the
fireplace.)
‘A cat!’ you cry, occasioning a hiatus in my concentration.
Together we watched it stalk and fail to catch its quarry. My next sentence
lacks precision.
‘Scrub that,’ (an ugly phrase I learned from you). I watch
as you apparently obey, unaware you expect me to die before your perfidy
becomes known.
Before this latest book is published. My words. Your name upon the cover.

