Chapter 3
The reply lands before I’ve put the phone down.
Ha, no. My place. And an address, a street I half-recognize, the neighborhood behind the fairground. I’ll cook something. Biscuit stays home. That part was real.
So it’s that.
I leave work eleven minutes early, which for me is a fire drill. At home, I feed Biscuit, who inhales his kibble then follows me to the closet.
First attempt, the green wrap dress. In the mirror, it says bridesmaid at a fall wedding.
Off. Second attempt, dark jeans, the good boots Biscuit hasn’t eaten because they live on a shelf, and a black top I bought two years ago for a version of my single-lady life that didn’t materialize.
Tags still on. I cut them off with the kitchen scissors, which feels like a commitment.
I do actual eyeliner. Both eyes match on the second try.
Biscuit watches from the bed, head on his paws, one eyebrow up.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
In the car, I run the risk assessment. Worst case, it’s weird, dinner is awkward, I find a new obedience class two towns over, and we never speak of it.
Biscuit sits now, mostly. Sunk costs recovered.
Best case, unclear. I have no data suggesting that getting laid makes a person a better dog owner, but I am, as of tonight, willing to run the experiment.
His street is ordinary. Small houses, big yards, a basketball hoop rusting over one driveway. His place is the gray one with the truck out front and the porch light already on, warm yellow against the dusk.
I park at the curb and check my eyeliner in the visor mirror one more time. It’s fine. It was fine the first time.
Hand on the door handle.