Young Dreamer.

She’s a difficult little fucker. Forever swimming in circles. Not eating. Not doing much. She’s temperamental at best. Flakey. Running late. Or more so: making me, making us, late. Forever leaving her things around the place. Water splashed across the tile. She’s not the most hygienic. Not that I mind too much, I’m just saying. She frequently forgets where she left the things that she leaves lying around, or hides beneath the sofa. She searches them out, barks at me, orders me around: find them, find them! She’s a restless sleeper. Wakes us both up in the night. Walks around in circles; muttering to herself is the best way to describe it. Gets us up: Will you make me some food? Please. An early start to the day, and yet: still we’re rushing. We need to go out before we go out, we have things to buy, things to stock up on, things she needs. We’ve got a laundry list. She howls at me: But why? She doesn’t understand why we have to go to dinner in the first place. Why we have to meet these people, make small talk. We could be at home, she thinks. We could at least leave a light on. She’s forever sulking; head buried in her shoulder; an uncomfortable position, I think, but she seems happy lying like that. She cocks her head at me. She raises an eyebrow. And when we leave, and head towards the train, and leave her behind, she will nonchalantly rise from the bed, stretch her hind legs, walk casually to the bathroom and piss all over the old grain sack we use as a matt.