People thought we had a cat.

We didn't have a cat. I don't like cats. 

I used to scratch him.

Not in the sexy "I want you so badly; please be with me now" sort of way; I probably wouldn't write about that sort of scratching except perhaps in code. 

I hated it when he touched me. It was violating. He would do it when he thought I wasn't paying attention, which happened often because I was busy with a baby, work, and everything that goes with running a household.

And so I would scratch him when he tried to grab me. Long scratches that streaked down his arm, carved from elbow to wrist as he jerked his hand away, dragging his arm along my outstretched nails. 

He didn't like it; sometimes I tore ragged strips of skin from his arm. He couldn't wear short-sleeved shirts because the scratches would show and people would ask about our cat. 

That was more than ten years ago.