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So much was at stake as the leopard curled his tail. The appendage reached his foot paw in fits and starts, more like a clock hand in its movement than the usual fluid sweep. It was one of many tells that Jagger could not subdue or explain away. If only he was the Cheshire Cat, his lie might have been borne with an invisible grin and no wretched betraying body parts. But he was imperfect as any fur, and the tail said what he deflected.

The other fur in the room, haggard from lack of sleep, repeated, "So you were home today over lunch." With this statement the sharply dressed cheetah narrowed his eyes, which were big and brown to make any squinting that much more exaggerated. "You don't think I can't read your body for your words?" he added hotly, knowing that this was a theme the couple had touched on many times over the years.

"Saanen..." the leopard began at a lower, entreating pitch. "My tail is only showing how uncomfortable I feel, you know that! We just talked about this the other day. I just spent hours before bed the other night telling you how trapped I feel when you do..." He fumbled for a descriptor and jumbled his forepaws in a manner he knew could be disarming, cute. "This! When you do all of this!" he finished with fluid bravado.

"What? Quizzing? What you keep referring to as "quizzing," like I'm so damn crazy for getting a bad feeling and checking in?" A loud, even thump punctuated the word "crazy" as the cheetah slammed his briefcase down on the kitchen counter, displaying a calculated speed that had not softened as his body had softened over the years. "I know you're lying about some part of this!"

"What? Which part?" the leopard snapped back, forepaw swinging away from his body in pique.

Instead of a reply, the deft lawyer he called mate swiped his phone unlock password to reveal the already-opened voice recording application. "This." A moment later Jagger's voice played through the tiny speakers at a different, more private pitch. It was throaty, dripping with implied sex like Saanen had not heard in his love's tone for so long.

"...od is so totally going to get it. Soon. Don't even worry about it. Hey, listen, I gotta run. Speak soon."

And the recording cut out.

Saanen's voice cracked as he pocketed his phone and spoke dangerously soft. "What's going to get it, Jagger." He swallowed and bit the inside of his right cheek where his flesh was tender from constant worrying. "I know that fucking... I know that voice." At the last, his tenor rose in pitch as if his vocal chords would leave his body with disbelief. Brown eyes did not blink but watered and stayed open, searching the other's face left and right.

Jagger knew he was out of range of a retort, but, losing all strategy, he let his mouth form the first surface reply: "You were recording me?" He pulled out an island chair and plopped down, letting the silence swallow his weak defense. "Do you even know what I was talking about," he stated rather than asked. "Do--do you not even trust me enough to answer that?"

The cheetah's head switched left and back, as if to mime, "Unbelievable." Most often there was some traction to be had with these sorts of questions, but no answer followed Jagger's feeble push. "Come on, Saan." The leopard frowned, realizing where he was, what was being said. "Are you really implying what I think you're implying?" He swallowed, the inside of his mouth drying out with every sentence. "I don't even know. Don't remember," he threw in.

After a deep intake of breath, his partner nodded. "I see. 'Don't remember,' as in there were so many sweet promises they all just bled together, huh." Those beautiful cheetah paws were clenched in tight fists; the paws that were rounded just perfect for the curve of his chest during a movie, or brushing to the side of his cheek in reassurance when he lost his brother.

"Saanen," he repeated again, eyes brimming as his body shook. "You were recording me?" It was as if he was broken to all his talents, his body deflating slowly as if he was without bones or any of his practiced, self-assured comportments. Gone were his glib transitions that made everything possible to enjoy and none of it to bear friction. "Why?" he whispered, head bowed.

But there would be no response for a full minute. The analog clock on the wall clicked out the silence, old and outdated but still fresh with batteries because it was theirs, a shared item that had made it all the way here from their first apartment. Its sound was a reflection, a small background to mornings with bowls of cereal or that Thanksgiving when Saanen's parents finally agreed to come to their home, to acknowledge them on a holiday. In its steady tap tap tap Jagger felt himself on the other side of this exchange, in rhythm to receive those memories as he received Saanen through the garage door only minutes past. But now his tail could not seem to follow. It twitched haphazardly, catching the clock beats like blows, as when his father hit him as a child or in the admonishing gaze of his long-forgotten piano teacher. He felt so suddenly without the rhythm.