A long pause.
“My wife.”
Oh.
Panic strikes again, so I blurt, “Well, maybe you need a club.”
That’s when I realize I have to leave before I spontaneously combust, but not before I lose a few flyers off the top of the pile in my haste, leaving a trail of glitter in my wake.
______________
I relay the entire ordeal to our group chat, ending with:
So I thanked him, apologized, took my flyers, and walked out with the grace of a broken Roomba stuck under a couch.
Viv: it’s like a car crash. I can’t look away.
Me: I accidentally traumatized a man in a suit, implied he needs a support group, and learned that funeral homes don’t like fun clubs. So… progress?
Marin: I bet you made him cry. Like toast.
Viv: I’m making us shirts. Matching black ones. With glitter. Lots of glitter.
Marin: More glitter is not better, Viv. I think we established this with the flyers.
And for the first time in a long time, I laugh so hard I cry.
Or maybe I cry so hard, I laugh.
Either way, I don’t feel so alone.
There might be others like us out there, but for now, three feels like more than enough.
Chapter Four
I breathe in deep, the scent of rain and zealous spring blooms curling through the air. Seattle isn’t for everyone, but I’ve always loved the vibrant, unapologetic way it screams life into existence in part because of the grey, foggy, rain-filled days. My shoes pound the pavement, and I match my breath to the rhythm.
Viv and Marin now message me faithfully in our group chat every morning, telling me to go put on my shoes and hit the pavement. Viv always adds, “It’s not about Owen, it’s about caring for your glutes. You’re still allowed to do something you love that also makes that booty pop!” Of course the full-time yoga instructor would say that.
I round the bend on my route, enjoying the way my legs don’t burn as badly as they did when I started up again a few weeks ago. Progress.
That’s when I see him. A hunched-over, gray-muzzled lump of a dog, dead center in the middle of the road. Not sitting. Not lying. Just planted there like a large, unkept, furry yield sign.
I slow my jog to a stop.
“Hey, buddy.” I lower my voice to a soothing tone, as if speaking to a cantankerous neighbor instead of a shaggy dog the color of mashed prunes, who clearly hasn’t seen a groomer sincethe Obama administration. His floppy ears twitch, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. He stares at me with big, searching brown eyes. Eyes that somehow look mine—as if they’ve seen too much life and are officially over it.
Cars aren’t common this time of day on our street, but still, I glance both ways. “You’re gonna get yourself flattened, pal. Let’s move it.”
I inch closer, clapping softly.
Nothing.
“Oh, for the love—” I mutter.
I crouch halfway down and attempt some very bad leashless coaxing before deciding it’s best to lift the silly boy out of the road.
“Okay. I’m your friend, and I’m trying to help you.” I stretch out my hand, letting him sniff me and reluctantly abiding a few slobbery kisses before I try to position myself under his body. “I feel we should be on a first name basis before I try to lift you.”
