“I can say the same for you.”
“I make my own hours with the designing. These guys have their own schedules that I try to stick with.” At Boen’s blank stare, I raise the hand holding the tangle of leashes of leashes. “I’m a dog-walker, remember?”
“That means they’re not all yours?”
“I live in half a house, just like you. As much as I love them, they wouldn’t all fit.” I reach down to scratch Cable’s ear.
“It’s a whole house, not half a house.”
“I know.”
“It’s a semi-detached house.”
“I know. It’s just something I say. My—never mind.” In no circumstance would admitting Bartlet’s slightly patronizing nickname for my house ever be a good idea.
We stand ten feet apart, staring at each other, Boen looking at the dogs like they’re about to explode. “You don’t like dogs much, do you?” I ask.
“No.”
“Not at all then.”
“That’s correct.”
“That’s too bad. Studies have shown that dogs are really good for relieving stress.”
“What studies say that?”
“What? I don’t know. Studies on the internet.”
Boen rolls his eyes, which raises my hackles. I do the eye rolling in this relationship. “Do you think I’m suffering from stress?” he asks suddenly.
“Well, you’re not relaxed.” He sniffs. “Do you want me to lie and say you’re all loosey-goosey standing there?” I pretend I have jelly legs and do a little wiggle on the sideway. Boen looks at me like I have a second head.
“It’s the dogs,” he says stiffly.
“Maybe so, but I don’t think so. Somehow I think stressed is your natural state, like resting bitch face. You have a resting tense face.”
“I’m not tense all the time.”
This time I do the eye roll. “Okay, then.” I should walk away now, because while that’s not the best exit line, it’s not bad. But my feet won’t move and now Charlie2 is squatting, so I’d have to wait anyway. Huffing with exasperation, I pull a plastic poop bag out of my pocket.
“Do you enjoy doing that?” Boen asks, as I lean down to scoop.
“Perk of the job,” I say, heavy on the sarcasm.
“So, you like picking up an animal’s excrement?”
“No, it’s something I have to do. And I like dogs, so I don’t mind. Much.” I tie the baggie as my face settles into a scowl. “Shouldn’t you be at work now?”
“PD Day. Professional development day,” he explains at my own blank expression.
“I know what it means. I’m not used to hearing an adult have one.”
“I am a teacher,” he reminds me, which feels more like a burst of new information rather than a reminder. “I told you this the other night.”
“I know. I know you’re a teacher.” But not a gym teacher. Something… science-y…
“Chemistry,” he says like he can read my mind. Maybe he can. Maybe there’s some science out there that lets you read people’s minds. I wouldn’t know.
