Who doesn’t like dogs?
“Da doggie kiss me!” she squeals.
I glance around. Not that I can see much while I’m squatting between bookshelves and letting a preschooler attack my dog.
Where are this kid’s parents?
“Looking for a sports book?” I ask her. “You’re out of luck unless you like hockey. Somebody needs to talk to management about that. You want to take one for the team and pass that along?”
She giggles. “You funny.”
“Thank you. Where’s your mama?”
She grins. “I no wif my mama.”
“Your daddy?”
She shakes her head again. “I no wif my daddy. It mybirfday!”
“Technically yourhonorarybirthday since I’ll miss your real birthday, but you’re turning four, so we’ll go with that,” Goldie herself says as she, too, turns the corner around the same row of shelves. “Hello, Fletcher. This is a surprise. Aw, Sweet Pea, you’re so cute. Careful, Hallie. We have to remember we’re a lot bigger than the doggie. Here.Softpets. This way.”
She smiles one of her kind smiles. It doesn’t sayI’m forcing this, but it also doesn’t sayseeing you is the highlight of my day. It merely saysyou’re a person I recognize so I’ll be nice.
Shit shit shit.
Did I shave?
Am I wearing my Pounders sweatpants?
Do I havePounderswritten across my ass again?
Do I look like a total tool?
Will she think I’m a total ass?
Of course she will. Iama total ass.
But she’s squatting next to me now too, smelling like vanillacupcakes and leaning in while she takes the little girl’s hand and demonstrates how to pet Sweet Pea nicely.
“What are you doing here?” she asks me as she helps her niece.
“Looking for reading lessons.”Fuuuuuuck. Sarcasm is my best friend. Until it’s not.
“I heard the owner’s daughter is looking for a part-time job. You might be in the right place.”
Another point for Goldie. The last time I simultaneously wanted to hug someone and flip them off, I ended up married.
And now I’m sweating.
She’s bloody pretty today in black leggings and a thick bluish-gray sweater that makes her golden eyes pop.
I wonder if that’s where she got her name. From her eyes.
Can’t be her hair.
That’s what I’m contemplating—how she got her name—when my dog—my best friend, my loyal companion, the one who’s supposed to choose me above everyone else—gets so excited that she wiggles her way out of her sling while I’m staring at Goldie.
“Doggie get me!” the little girl shrieks.
