Knox
“Hey, I saw you earlier,” I say, turning.
“Oh yeah?” the Girl says. “You sure it was me?”
“Hundred percent. And the first thing I thought when I saw you was how interesting you look; how much I’d like to get to know you.
All the more so now that I find myself suddenly awfully lonely and trying to think through my next moves as it sets in how much more planning I maybe should have done before making what turned out to be an impulsive decision.
Wanna come hang out with me by my campfire and share one of my three dented cans of Dinty Moore beef stew from the same Meijer dumpster my birthday cake came from so I have some beautiful way to forget, at least for a while, the bind I’ve gotten myself into?
As a bonus, right now is the best I’ve smelled in, oh, eleven years or thereabout, so I have that going for me. What do you say?”
Naturally, I didn’t say a word of that. But every cell in my body was imploring me to.
Here’s what I do say: “You have a dog, right?”
“Everyone here has a dog.”
“Like a big golden retriever. With a sweet face.”
“As opposed to a golden retriever with a terrifying face?”
“I mean.”
“One of those golden retrievers missing an eye, with blood dripping from its fangs and a torn ear?” the Girl says.
“All right, I get it. Stupid. But that was you, right?”
“The golden retriever?”
And I’ve just fallen in love a little bit. What’s better than a beautiful girl who will throw down a dumb joke. “You do actually kinda look like a golden retriever, if that makes sense. It’s a compliment.”
“People seem to gravitate toward dogs that match them.”
“What’s his name?”
“How do you know he’s a he?”
“Besides the fact you just told me, every time I’ve encountered a girl traveling with a dog, it’s a boy dog.”
“His name’s Winslow.”
“That’s a good name. I used to have a dog named Bilbo.”
“Winslow and Bilbo sort of rhyme.”
“Hey.”
“Winslow’s really nice. He likes people.”
“As opposed to a golden retriever who hates people and just wants to be alone and not be bothered with chasing a slobbery tennis ball.”
“I deserved that. You got me. But yeah, he’s a sweetie. Loves tummy rubs. Don’t say ‘as opposed to a golden retriever who hates tummy rubs.’ You get one, not two.”
I smile. “I wasn’t gonna.” Then something comes over me. “I have a really weird question.”
“Do I need my pepper spray?”
“No, no. Not weird like . . . I’ll just ask. Do I smell okay?”