What the Cat Saw
The cable guy's comment hung in the air like smoke. "You know, your husband asks a lot of questions about the network infrastructure at the aerospace firm."
I stood there, frozen, while our cat Barnaby twined around my legs, his tail flicking with what I'd always called his "spy radar." The ridiculous name suddenly felt less ridiculous.
Mark came home that night to baseball on the TV - another game, another loss for the home team. He sat on the couch, and I watched him chew his spinach salad, watched the green flecks catch in his teeth, watched his eyes flick to the window every time a car passed. Our cat, perched on the windowsill, watched Mark.
"You know," Mark said, "I think I should start taking the bus to work instead of driving. Save on gas."
It was so calculated, so perfectly timed. Like everything.
I'd married him three years ago in a courthouse ceremony, too pragmatic for a wedding. He'd said he worked in logistics. Supply chains. That's why he knew so much about routes, schedules, systems.
"What did you do today?" he asked, not looking at me.
"The cable guy came," I said. "Fixed the router."
His hand paused. A fraction of a second, but there.
"Nice guy," I added. "Talked about how you've been asking about aerospace security protocols."
Mark set down his fork. Spinach and salmon, forgotten.
"He misspoke," he said quietly.
"He also mentioned," I heard my voice steady, strange, "that your monthly rate for business-tier internet is unusual for a residential account. Said it's typically used for heavy data transfers."
Barnaby leapt from the windowsill to Mark's lap, and my husband - my husband? - flinched.
"You're being paranoid," he said, but the words were hollow.
"Am I?" I stood up. "Or did you just get too comfortable?"
The baseball game cheered for a home run. Mark didn't move. Barnaby stayed in his lap, purring, as if everything were exactly as it should be.
"I never meant to hurt you," he said finally.
"I know," I said. "That's the problem. You never meant anything at all."