“Still adhesive-based imprisonment.”
She ignores me.
“I need to discuss the hamster account.”
I stop typing.
Slowly.
Of course she does.
“Please get a hobby.”
“This is my hobby.”
“This is not a hobby. This is online rodent surveillance.”
“This is quality family content.”
I sigh and reach for my phone.
Instagram opens before I can stop myself.
@hamsteroftheheath sits there like the digital manifestation of several poor life choices.
Sophie says, with zero shame, “Also, I know he’s gay, but your tattooed friend has no business looking like that while holding a hamster.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“He is not my tattooed friend.”
“He is shirtless in at least twelve posts.”
“You counted?”
“I have eyes.”
“You are married.”
“So? I’m not blind.”
I bark out a laugh.
Then glance down at the latest post.
Heath beside a tiny cake with one raspberry balanced on top.
Caption:Three months of surviving this tenancy arrangement.
I smile before I can stop it.
Sophie catches the silence immediately.
“There. That.”
“What?”
“That little fond smile you do now.”
