Tears squeezed out from one eye.
Big, round, wet drops slid down the woman’s left cheek.
She called out in anguish and rubbed the crying eye.
The other eye remained dry, unconcerned with the activities of its sister.
My heart squeezed tight. I was responsible for this lopsided show of emotion.
Her pain had grown too great; it sought escape through the easiest portal, the left eye.
Then I realized, she wasn’t crying. Something was in her eye.
Almost certainly, the irritant’s source sat next to the woman, lazily looking around the room with crusty eyes. The cat yawned and blinked. It was big and lumpy, like an old pillow with cheap stuffing.
She patted its misshapen little head, not minding the lumps of matted, greasy fur.
“Just like mama, you’re old and fat.”
She forgot to mention hairy.
The woman laughed and lost her breath. Instantly, her face grew grim. She waited for the oxygen flowing into her nostrils to saturate her blood again.
Just like the respiratory therapist told her, she huffed and puffed and damn near blew the house down.