The cats fight nightly. In the mornings they awake bleary eyed to a wasteland of broken glass and clawed furniture. Tufts of black fur in the living room and lumpy orange puke on the corner of the dining room rug. They step in it barefoot and curse. Yet here they are again, lying like two corpses, in the tension of a stretched out silence (the threshold of fresh chaos). There’s a crash. His voice slashes at her across the glacial expanse of white sheets. For chrissakes, why d’you let those damn animals in again? I didn’t, she spits. You did.