We argue about books. Not fight, just bicker back and forth.  Cam likes books that are like real life.  Even old books have to pass the test:  could this really have happened?  Jack London and J.D. Salinger, yes; Edith Wharton and Virginia Woolf, maybe; the Brontes, no way.

I like books where there's no way it could be true, but you wish it were.  What's the point of reading about reality?  That's what I'm trying to get away from.  

So he goes to the used bookstore and gets me the books I used to look at when I spent my days in the library.  Books about fairies -- not the cute kind, but the ones who look and act more like demons. Ghost stories.  Charlotte and Emily Bronte.

"Cathy!" he groaned when he handed me a used copy of Wuthering Heights.

Shut up.

He grinned.

Our only meeting place is, we both like monster stories.  The old kind.  Dracula, Dr. Frankenstein, and Jekyll and Hyde.  H. G. Wells, but I had to stop reading The Island of Dr. Moreau.  It just felt a little too close to home.

I read all day, almost, when Cam's gone, wrapped up in the quilt that smells like his shampoo; and when he's home I bake things.  They don't always turn out very well, but it makes the place warm and baking is like coffee, it smells better than it tastes.  

I'd like to mess around in the kitchen when he's out.  He doesn't care if I do, in fact I think he'd like it.  But when he's gone I go into hiding.  I hate making any noise at all, and a scent would be just as easy to trace.