When Bruce comes into the sitting room to watch the ladies' semifinals of Wimbledon, I am half asleep on the couch. He sits next to me. I stir. I am thinking about yesterday when I was outside on the damp grass. Bruce gets up from the couch. He goes outside. I get up from the couch. I watch him through the back door window. He photographs himself. He comes back inside. He says nothing. I say "Meow." I go into the bathroom and jump up on to the toilet and then on to the window sill. I watch the sparrow at the birdbath. Bruce is talking to himself. He says "I want to get out my softbox." I didn't even know what that was until I came to live with him a few years ago. It, the softbox, that is, was set up in his photography studio, along with a bunch of other nights. He once made me sit still on a stool so he could photograph. I didn't mind so much.