Riley
And wild is right! This was taken post ‘mad-dog’ routine
Steph
Ha! You remembered that I call it that?!
Riley
Sure, you used to always talk about that one shepherd mix at the shelter who would race around like she had jet packs on. What was her name again?
Steph
Bella. I really can’t believe you remember that
Riley
I do. You were so happy when she was adopted, but you were heartbroken, too
Steph
I missed her so much after she was gone. Pretty sure I bawled my eyes out the day she left
Riley
You soaked my shirt
Steph
That’s soembarrassing
Riley
Nah. I was glad to be there for you
Steph
:-)
Doesasmileyfaceemoji count for my smile tally? I wonder idly as I scan through my most recent text exchange with Steph. I’d sent her a photo of Connor looking particularly fierce, but also adorable in the way soaking wet dogs do, after his bath this morning. He’d fought me tooth and nail while I was scrubbing him down, but then, surprisingly, hadn’t wanted to get out of the tub afterward, instead lying down in the shallow water and panting happily in the steam like he was enjoying a leisurely day at the spa. Once I’d forcibly removed him and given him a good rubdown with a towel, he’d proceeded to do the typical wet-dog shake, then zipped back and forth around my bedroom like a mad dog, grunting and barking. It’d been hilarious, and just like out of a cartoon. The image was snapped right at the end of his growling tirade, when he stopped abruptly and stared up atme with the whites of his eyes showing and his wet fur standing up in crazy tufts.
When Steph’s response had come back almost instantly, I’d congratulated myself on the progress.
I decide now that it does indeed count, so …eighteen.
The rattling of dishes causes me to glance up, and I find Lola coming through from the kitchen with a tray of clean pint glasses. She’s just clocked in and is set to close tonight, but our shifts will overlap for several hours during our busiest time. We exchange nods, and I move to help her unload the tray.
“Busy night?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Been pretty quiet so far.”
We’re silent for a while as we finish putting up the glasses, then Lola slips down the bar to serve a group of new arrivals while I busy myself with cutting up some lemons and limes and inventorying the other frequently used garnishes.
“Wanna go grab more olives and cocktail onions from the back?” I ask her when she returns. Lola nods, flipping her black hair over a shoulder as she spins around to go do exactly that, when I’m reminded of what—who—I’d been thinking about before she arrived.
“Hold up,” I call, and she turns back towards me with a questioning look. “Need to take my break at ten to nine,” I tell her, not revealing the reason I want to duck out at that particular time. Though we haven’t worked together very long, Lola knows I don’t often take a set break. I just sort of drift into the office orout back for some air whenever things slow down enough that I’m not needed, so this is unusual.
She eyes me curiously, then shrugs. “You’re the boss.”
