I try to be there for her. I really do, but sometimes it’s as if I’m invisible. As if I don’t matter at all. Yesterday, for example, was typical. She went for her run in the morning, five miles if I understand it, about 45 minutes. Back home she showered, checked her phone, scowled, brewed a cup of tea, munched a biscotti, watered the plants, checked her phone again, scowled again, and opened her laptop.

Some days after her shower she dresses, then she might go out, but not yesterday. She worked on her laptop, made another cup of tea, returned to her laptop. The morning went by. The afternoon. Okay, she did ask me if I’d gotten enough to eat. She gave me a wan smile. It’s just you and me, that smile seemed to say. But then it wasn’t. She was back at her desk, at her laptop, and then as evening crept in, she closed the lid, poured a glass of wine, typed a message on her phone, finished the wine, and lay down on the daybed.

I do enjoy watching her when she masturbates. The careful motion of her fingers. The quickening of her breath. The rise and fall of her breasts. The sudden frenzy of her fingers. The delicious gasp. The clench and twitch of her toes. The twitch and clench of her cunt. Sometimes she dips a finger in. Sometimes she gives me a taste.

“Are you lonely, my pet?” she asks, but not in a serious way. Almost an afterthought. “Do I neglect you?” Then she strokes me. Oh that feels good. And we nuzzle. So nice.

But then her phone purrs. And she jerks up. Hastens to fetch it. Frowns. Scowls. And another day might as well be over.