So she sat high and mighty at her candlelit dinner table. Forking through sea-weed, nicely set in a grey plastic dish, as her obese cat purred around, often brushing against her bare legs. Raptula was a good cat, unlike many other rowdy ones adopted from the street. He practised much patience, like his mistress.
She had had a bad day at work. Much too similar to yesterday. Or the day before. Like every single day life had shown her. Life, since she started earning a living for herself. What good could selling pebbles at the shore bring anyway? Other than a few obnoxious gestures from some creeps adorning man boobs.
You’d enjoy those gestures if you were a nympho. But Sigret. She wasn’t one. In fact she couldn’t even spell ‘nympho’. Or ‘sex’ for that matter. She was just 6.
Living alone in an abandoned beach house with a patient cat has its own charm though. Especially if you’re an imaginative 6 year old. You get to christen your name, your cat's name. You control its existence. Or your own for that matter.
