“I created it. If I didn’t know about it, I’d need to cut back on my alcohol consumption.”
Confusion conquers my thoughts. He invented a San Francisco tradition? Does everyone do community service on the same day? How has this never gotten into the news? How is San Francisco not a flawless city yet?
“What?” is all I manage to get out.
He adjusts the Welsh terrier in his arms. The dog rests its head on his bicep. It must be nice.
“Zandra, I own 2Resonance,” he says. I stare at him.
“No, you fucking don’t,” I say before I can stop myself. I shake my head. “No. There’s no way. Your name wasn’t mentioned on the website.”
“Yeah, I don’t advertise it,” he says. “A lot of people dismissed the idea when I came forward with it because my family has a lot of money. So, I avoid associating my name with it.”
Liar, liar, liar,my mind screams, but he knows too much to be lying about this. I never told him what company I was working for and I only told my parents that I had applied for this job. They don’t know about Mark. They couldn’t have told him where I was working, which means that he couldn’t have found out on his own.
The universe is simply playing a joke and the punchline is me.
“I’m glad you’re not afraid of dogs anymore,” he says.
“That was a long time ago,” I say, but my thoughts are on six years ago, not when I saw the dog attack. I turn around, walking back to the organization’s building.
He follows me, a ghost of the past, come to remind me that desire is dangerous. He’s here to remind me that nothing is permanent, especially not love.
******
6 years ago
I kept Petit—what we named our lost dog—on my lap as Mark drew him. We sat under a gnarly tree, which cast streams of sunlight over us. Mark glanced up at me every few seconds, though his attention should have been on the dog. I wished I could play it coy, but I know what an artist’s face looks like when he’s admiring what he sees, and it was nice to feel admired.
When he finished and he showed me the drawing, I was surprised. A lot of people claim to be artists. A lot of people genuinely love art. But someone who’s good at realistically depicting anything with a pencil is rare. Too many people wait around, hoping inspiration will strike them instead of putting the effort in to become experienced.
Mark was experienced.
The drawing of Petit seemed to almost come off the page. It was realistic enough that if you stared at it long enough, you’d still be wondering if it was a drawing or a photo.
“What do you think?” he asked. The way he was looking at me, I knew he genuinely wanted my opinion—even more, he valued my opinion. I’d never had anyone value my opinion like that.
“It’s perfect,” I said. I wished for more eloquent words to express my appreciation, but nothing else could describe it. “Now, we just need to find a copy shop to make more posters. Do you think someone will claim him?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “He’s an awesome puppy. The real question is if the actual owner will claim him.”
I kept the dog in my arms as Mark used his phone to find a copy shop and we began our walk to it. It would have been faster to use public transport, but we didn’t want to risk the dog being rejected from any of those and we didn’t mind walking with each other.
The cashier of the copy shop allowed us to bring the puppy in. The cashier didn’t speak English, but Mark and I knew enough French combined to tell him about how we found the puppy, how we managed to make ‘Found Dog’ posters, and how we were hoping to find its owner. We bought some tape before leaving.
We taped the posters everywhere. I laughed more than I’ve ever laughed as Mark taped it in the most random places that would still garner attention from anyone—the back of public bathroom stall doors, over the menu on the side of an ice cream truck, on the back of a French police officer—and he gave me the biggest grin every time I laughed.
If someone had asked me at that moment if I was in love with him, I wouldn’t be able to say a simpleno.
When we were almost done, he vanished.
I’d crossed the road to tape some posters to some bike racks and a crosswalk signal. When I returned to where he’d been putting a poster on a streetlight, he was gone. My anxious mind skipped straight to disaster: he’d been kidnapped. I tried to reassure myself—maybe he went to the bathroom. Maybe he found another strange place to put a poster.
But time ticked by. I was a foreigner on a busy intersection of Paris and my new friend had just disappeared. In my mind, I ran through a description of him in case I needed to report his disappearance to the police. I strode back and forth near the intersection, looking down the various streets, waiting to see him.
Nearly twenty minutes had passed by before I saw him coming from the north carrying a white bag.
I was relieved and I was pissed. “What the hell!” I yelled, throwing up my arms.
