Cerulean Cape Covered my soul with grit and coal

As women do, she talks, throwing words at a brick wall. Thick muscles ripple to irritated attention, his gait slowing with the thunder of his paws. Fine, he'll bite. The golden glare of his one eye, dead of all emotion except for maybe a thread of annoyance, lifted with the straight of his neck. An army man standing to attention, ruined only by the dirty mangle of his coat. (He'd once been quite the meticulous groomer, if you could believe it. He hadn't any reason to keep it clean of late, though.) He stops, and whether she did or not, he would stand stalwart. 

The black cut of his mouth drew backward in a sardonic smile that lasted only a second. "It's a wonder nobody's managed to snap that weasel neck of yours." Or separate her and that tongue, at the very least. Where Karma had only a few ounces of whatever respect he could muster for a fellow man, women rarely even recieved his attention, and it was a wonder he didn't consider them entirely invisible. Anytime they spoke, whether it be with eyes cast down in submission or yowling shrill with nagging, he considered them irritating, and best left in the shadows of their husbands. These were old beliefs, one's he hadn't cultivated since his time in uniform, but something about this one surfaced all that old prejudice to a boiling point.

"No man favors a stalker," he rumbles, lifting his chin with a haughty jerk and somehow bolstering his shoulders forward at the same time, defensive and aggressive and all-around looking like a tool — which was, unbeknownst to him, his specialty.