I sigh and flop onto my stomach, trying not to think of his not coming home this weekend as being stood up.
Normally, at this early hour, I’d go back to sleep, because what the hell am I gonna say to him anyway? Need a spotter? Pecs look great. Want me to make the coffee?
Or maybe I could just straddle him when he’s lying on the bench press and see what happens. I cup my crotch because the thought makes my dick twitch, and an erection is the last thing I need. I’m wide awake after a few more minutes. Eventually, I get out of bed, throw on my running clothes, and signal to Apollo that it’s time to go.
As we’re passing through the living room, I do my best not to look over at Deacon on the bench press.
“Did I wake you?” he asks, sounding concerned.
“It’s no problem.” I flash him a sleepy smile. I get the dog’s leash on, and we leave without another word.
The best thing I can say about sexual frustration of the Deacon variety is that it makes me go harder on my workouts. Apollo isn’t a huge fan, but his legs are long enough that he’s capable of keeping up. We walk to Buena Vista park so he can take care of his business, but once I’ve disposed of his mess, we start running. And that’s whenshecatches up to me.
“Good morning, neighbor! You’re out early.”
My first response to Millie’s jump scare is to haul ass, but maybe she’s the distraction I need. It’s not like I’ll have to do much of the talking. Millie’s biography highlights are that she’s twenty-five—my age—is originally from Portland, and also works in tech. Her job is actually cool, though. She works in game design, creating some of the amazing graphics in the most popular games on the market. She’s heavily tattooed. She loves her French Bulldog. She doesn’t know the meaning of neutral colors, and she’s one of those people who always has music playing on her phone. Every kind of music from Africandrumbeats, Gregorian chants, Chappell Roan, Sleep Token, to George Strait.
This morning she’s got an EDM beat playing at the exact pace of her strides. I guess she assumes it might be helpful to other people—otherwise, she’d wear headphones, right?
I say good morning, which is the only opener she needs.
“Do Apollo’s nipples ever get tender? Every time I try to rub Manon’s belly, she’s trying to get away from me.”
Manon—pronounced in the French way—sounds a little like Ma-Known, but Millie always says it with an accent, too. The dog is a funny looking little thing with bug eyes and a brindle coat.
“I never noticed.”
“And I swear they’re bigger. That’s never happened?”
“I mean—Apollo’s a boy.”
“You think that’s it? Female dogs have bigger nipples?”
“That could be it.”
“But why the tenderness?”
“Maybe she just doesn’t want her belly rubbed.”
Millie laughs, and—not exaggerating—it sounds like wind chimes. “That’s so silly.”
“Did you google it?”
“No! I don’t need the internet convincing me my puppy has breast cancer. I’m taking her to the vet after I’m done with work.”
Manon has been to the vet more times than I’ve been to the doctor in my entire life.
“Does Deacon run?” she asks, onto the next topic.
“He has a treadmill.”
“Well, I know that, but if he’s gonna do an Iron Man, trail running is key. He knows it’s different, right? Like it activates different muscle groups and builds better mind-foot connection. He should really get outside more. Or wait—has he already done the Iron Man?”
I’m not convinced Deacon’s actually training for an Iron Man. I’ve never once seen him on a bike, nor have I ever noticed him going for a swim. He works out at home, exclusively, from what I can tell. If I thought Deacon had pick up lines, I’d guess the Iron Man thing was a line.
“The marathon is brutal. I lost two toenails during my last one.”
“Wow,” I say.
