My friends could see straightaway that there's no way it's going to work between him and me. They gave us a couple of weeks, at most. And they were absolutely right: It is a disaster since five years now. We don’t argue, because my fighting spirit appears out of phase to him. We could, just to give an example, not fall out about a movie or piece, because I don’t go to cinema and he never accompanies me to the theatre. We don’t exchange stories from our past. We are not similar enough to feel home at the story of the other. And we are not distinct enough to listen patiently to the other.
Even our future we couldn’t picture together. He wants to get ahead at the broadcasting in the capital and waits for the right moment. I’m studying agriculture because I’d like to take over a cork plantation in Portugal.
Only the bed-thing is knitting us together. In bed it’s all right. We inflame each other and charge up, we uncover our nerves until they become wound. That does not mean, that it couldn’t be good or even better with somebody else. And it’s not good always. There are of course those and those nights.
Always the same way goes the little metamorphosis which happens to him a short time after he pulled the condom with routine away and estimated the weight of his capacity which dangled in rubber now. He somehow bridged over with a stretched arm the distance which the condom disposal causes, then he curls up drained and satisfied. He fells asleep immediately and after a while I hear on his right hand (it’s always the right one) how his nails are going to grow. The claws bow around balls* soft as silk and the fingers draw back, the hand is going to be rounder and the hair on the back of the hand starts to proliferate.
The tops of ears push through the hair at his head and shiny, black-velvety hair grows from every pore of his body. His tail lies in a comfort bow in front of his belly. When something bothered him within his dreams, the top of his tail starts to twitch. Then I caress him and he awakes for a moment. He watches into my eyes with a clear glance, deep like a well and somehow absent. He wipes with a reflex onetime about his imposing moustache and continues to sleep.
With the morning light he gains back his old shape. He turns on his broadcasting and capital thoughts even before he realises that someone is lying next to him. I don’t expect a morning kiss since a long time. I’m happy about his little secret and I keep it to myself understandably because I wouldn’t like to disturb his self-image.
Since I know for sure why I’m so much attached to him, I ask myself from time to time what in the way let him stay with me.

* that means the part of cat paw (at underside)