The fishbowl, the fodder, and that feeling of regularity.

So there I was.  So there she was.  On the Ottoman trimming her toenails, Alexandria, and there a punkt and there would fly one.

"Not so close to the fishbowl, dear."  I said.

I had looked upon such with the scorn that only lovers can muster, the scorn as if the loathing of one's own favorite blanket or stuffed fodder.