She beamed at the thought. I smiled with her before putting my hand on the back of her arm—the most I could do while she was still holding onto Petit—and urging her forward with a false desire for punctuality. She was laughing hard, her head thrown back, as we rounded the corner. I stopped as my phone rang. She stopped a few feet in front of me. As I pulled my phone out, ready to pressignore,I noticed the area code was from Île-de-France, a region of France that includes Paris. The only people that would be calling from that number are people who saw our posters for Petit.
I considered ignoring it. The day was going perfectly. Zandra had become attached to Petit. But I’d have to answer them at some point and kidnapping a dog sounded like one of the acts that would get you a ticket straight to Hell.
“Hello?” I answered. “Bonjour?”
“Hello,” a woman with a faint French accent said. “You are American?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry, but my French isn’t great. Is it okay if we speak English?”
“Yes. I am fluent.”
“Great.” I glanced at Zandra. She held Petit tighter. “Are you calling about the dog?”
“Yes. His name is Danton. I am so happy that you found him. Can we meet at a location? Soon?”
“How do I know he’s your dog?” I asked. Zandra turned away from me, but I saw Petit raise his head and lick her ear.
“I own photos. They are all inside my cellular phone.”
“Right.” I faced away from Zandra. I didn’t want to be the one who caused her pain. “We’re on Avenue Victor Hugo near the statue of Hugo. Can you meet us here?”
“Yes. I will see you on Avenue Victor Hugo in twenty minutes. Thank you, sir. I will see you soon.”
“Thank you,” I echoed. “We’ll see you here soon.”
She hung up. I turned back around. Zandra was facing me again. She raised her eyebrow.
“We’re not on Avenue Victor Hugo,” she said.
“I know, but it’s busier than this street and I’m not meeting a random person in a place that isn’t populated with people.”
“You’re with me and I’m a random stranger.”
“I barely noticed,” I said, grinning at her. She smiled back and it was sweet enough that I took a moment to memorize it, so I could draw it later.
My hand instinctively pressed against the area right above her hip as I quickly guided her through the streets. She kept a tight grip on Petit, who barely registered that anything was happening. He was comfortable with her. It was one of the few times I related to a dog.
The buildings on Avenue Victor Hugo were stunning works of architecture, but we raced past them. We ran with a reckless abandon that’s impossible to recapture after consequences make their first serious cut. We ran with an invincibility that only comes with late adolescence.
By the time we reached the Hugo statue, my forehead had a crown of sweat and Petit—Danton, apparently—was squirming in Zandra’s arms. She was breathing hard. I’d had to keep a slower pace, so she could keep up, but my concern over her heavy breathing shrank as she leaned up against me, her sweet vanilla scent drawing me even closer to her. Her exhales burst against the curve of my neck. It was more erotic than sex.
She stood up straight as a woman came running toward us. She was a blonde, middle-aged woman, wearing a plaid dress. She opened her arms and Petit/Danton frantically tried to reach her. When the woman was less than a couple of feet away, Zandra released him. He leaped into the woman’s arms, licking her face while yipping with excitement.
The woman, Rosalie, explained to us that Danton had escaped when a new dog walker came to her apartment to walk him. The dog walker had searched all day and only informed Rosalie that her puppy was missing when the workday was over. Rosalie searched until it went dark. She called animal shelters, but nobody had seen him. She made Lost Dog posters and had been in the process of putting them up when she saw the posters we made. She saved the poster because she loved the drawing. On her phone, she showed us photos she had of Danton since he was seven weeks old.
She thanked us, tried to pay us, thanked us again, and left.
The whole time, the expression on Zandra’s face was enough to make me look away. Her eyes remained wide as she looked to the left of the woman and the left side of her mouth slightly curved upward, but she'd lost the glow to her skin and her shoulders were slumped.
I hadn’t thought much about what would happen when someone claimed the puppy, but from my time with Zandra, I should have known that she became attached quickly and letting go of things wasn’t her most skilled quality.
It was an admirable personality trait, but it inevitably became a detriment.
She was still melancholy when I took her to a fountain at the end of the street. She sat on the edge of the fountain basin, the mist causing a soft haze around her. She was stunning.
“Could I draw you?” I asked. She nodded. I drew the flow of her hair, the soft curves of her shoulders, and the fleck of sadness in her eyes that was slowly being eclipsed by affection. I likely spent too much time focusing on the way the fountain’s shadow embraced around her thigh like a girdle, but she didn’t seem to mind.
If you’d reminded me that we’d only met in the morning, I’d deny it. I’d known her my whole life because that was when it began.
