The man, middle-aged and fat, looked at her. “You’re old. You’re ancient, lady.” The woman stared at him. You call me old? I will not allow you to call me old.” She could have added: How dare you call me old? You are an undocumented immigrant who guzzles beer. You are over 40 and you have a paunch.” She could also have mentioned the domestic violence scenes she had overheard from her bedroom. He shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever. You just get that cat out of here. This is my home. It is not your home. You rent a room here and that’s it.” The woman couldn’t believe it. “How can this be your home? You don’t even pay rent as the woman’s boyfriend. You don’t pay, period. You live here for free.” She wished she could have said this, but the man was a lot stronger than she was. “Remember, this is not a hospice or a shelter.” “She was tired; she wanted to go to sleep and forget the scene had ever happened. “ The cat will be out by tomorrow.” In the morning, when she went to look for the cat, she was gone.