I go up to the dog to make a show of petting him. I tell him he’s a good dog.
I praise my dog for things like sitting and shitting and eating. If he could sing, I could make him a pop star. Same IQs.
I check out my f*******: page to see if anyone’s commented on the rockfish with tomato sauté and brown rice. No one. When I look up, the woman is walking away. Her a*s is nice, but she probably hates its plumpness that refuses to be processed by the gym equipment.
The three girls come out and start to push patio chairs around one of the tables. They’re talking in whispers. I can feel the excitement.Without looking, I know they’re looking at us, my dog and me.
I check my f*******: again. Homemade ravioli, one comment: “nice!” Someone named Cassandra. I have a vague memory of armpit stubble
