I circle the round tweed pillow three times, cream and brown shades, with a thin pumpkin line woven through for spiciness. This one’s my favorite, especially since She left it in the bay window. From here I look out onto the front porch, small yard, and quickly dipping sun. There’re a few more pillows in my little wooden nook with its glass frame: the uppity mustard velvet one, the girly, maroon one, shaped like an envelope but with a silky bow at the tip where the flap ends, and a pair of chocolate square toss pillows of ill-repute. The husband’ll never dust back here, or anywhere. He’ll never move my pillows; he needs to be studying. And Mistress was just here checking on him and the house, so She won’t be back for a couple of weeks. I sigh contentedly. Like every afternoon, I pull gently at the rust-colored button at the center of my pillow to ensure it hasn’t loosened before I lay my belly across the cozy warmth of the tweed. Perhaps I …