“Good thing that didn’t spill then. Shame about my coffee, but I suppose there was nothing to be done.”
“Except use a cup with a lid?” I ask, bewildered. How can one person be both sexy and disastrous at the same time?
She shrugs, unbothered. “Why would I dirty another dish?”
“That logic doesn’t even make sense.”
“It’s more environmental this way. If I poured it into a to-go cup, that would mean more water, and so on,” she argues, adjusting the Dachshund mix in her arms.
Wait. I mean…the humping hound. Because the dog isstillgoing, thrusting his little doggy hips as he dangles from her hands.
I stare at him. Then at her. Then back at him. “He’s still humping?” Because…holy shit. Her mutt is out of control.
She snaps her gaze to the pup, chiding him with, “Simon, you’re in air jail.” She shifts her focus back to me, lifting her chin. “It’s just excess energy. It’s something some dogs do when they’re excited…or overstimulated.”
I arch a brow at the last word. “Overstimulated?”
“It doesn’t meanthat. It’s just a thing some dogs do.”
“They hump the air?” Where does she come up with this stuff?
She jerks back, as if she’s offended. “Are you actually critiquing his style?”
“His style of dogging it while he’s inair jail?”
She clutches the pup closer as he gives a final thrust, like a wind-up toy winding down. “He’s just…high energy,” she says defensively.
“He’s just…inappropriate,” I toss back.
She rolls her eyes. “Simon, let’s go.”
In a huff, she spins around, heading down my block.
Don’t want to be anywhere near her unchecked energy, so I turn the other way. My jaw tightens as I walk. So much for my neat and orderly day.
3
FRIDAY NIGHT MONKEY
SKYLAR
I’m still fuming an hour later as I flip through a rack of vintage handbags. “Can you believe the gall of that guy, critiquing my dog’s humping style?”
The thrift store smells like old books and good deals, while some kind of indie pop plays faintly overhead. Trevyn holds up a sequined silver clutch against his glowy ebony complexion, raising aWhat do we think?eyebrow. Mabel inspects a full set of Le Creuset baking dishes, which are, for some reason, displayed next to the bags.
“I stopped Simon before anything happened,” I continue, still indignant at my uptight neighbor and insulted on Simon’s behalf. “There was no need to insult his technique. Some dogs just have urges. My mom’s Chihuahua humps a stuffed monkey every Friday night. She even calls itFriday Night Monkey—so what’s the big deal?”
Trevyn chokes on a laugh. “I—okay, wait.Friday Night Monkey?”
Mabel sets down a cherry-red pan, tilting her head, her big brown eyes curious. “That’s a lot to unpack. I’mnot even sure where to start,” she says, tucking her chestnut waves behind her ears.
“It’s not like they’re going to make some freaky little Chihuahua-Dachshund-Corgi-German Shepherd mix,” I argue. “Simon’s neutered.”
I pluck a faux leather tote from the shelf next to a set of whisks. This store off Fillmore Street is nailing the gadgets-and-accessories theme. I desperately need a new bag for my meeting today—something stylish, professional, and eco-conscious. I also desperately need this job. Being a one-woman shop is hard, and it means hustling for every job. The corporate design firms keep getting bigger and gobbling up more work, so a job for a whole house is a big deal.
I waggle the bag for my friends. “Is this the one?”
Trevyn and Mabel stare at me.
