they, Pilate?” He looked at me with steady, quiet earnestness. “Where’s Dad anyway?”
“Oh, wandering somewhere.” She didn’t look at me.
“Without Pilate?”
“Your dad’s walks are a little long for Pilate now.”
Pilate, the dog who once went on Mom’s walks, Dad’s walks, and any other walks offered. Pilate, the inexhaustible. Now, he collapsed on the rug next to me, rolling halfway onto his back, his paw lolling lazily in the air as I rubbed his chest. I felt coming loneliness lapping at me even here: Mom in her chair with vegetables from the garden she could no longer tend, Foxy and Pilate dying in increments.
Mom and I made falafel while we waited for Dad. I chopped tomatoes and mixed cilantro yogurt, wondering if Not-Jed liked cilantro, wondering if he ever held it to his nose as I did now, to inhale its pungent freshness, or if he only knew the number to punch into the cash register. It was an important question.
Dave called me at work Monday. After months of carefully constructed privacy, he had taken the home and work numbers listed on the emergency card outside Foxy’s stall—a card I’d never before seen as a vulnerability.
He wanted lunch. His voice was upbeat and hopeful, like there was nothing strange in this. “No,” I whispered into the all too public phone. Cheryl kept stealing glances at me.
He paused and the edge of urgency sharpened his voice, “You said, ‘I regret nothing.’ I can’t stop thinking about that, about the way you looked at me when you said it. I know what that look meant, Joannie.” He waited for a response I wouldn’t give. “Joan, I need you in my life. And you need me. You don’t regret our time together, and neither do I.”
“Having no regrets doesn’t mean I’m going to make the same mistakes twice.” I let that sink in. “Having no regrets also means I don’t regret ending it with you.”
That stopped him for a moment, but he rallied. “Listen, I understand what we did was wrong. Maybe we can’t be all we were before, but I need you as a friend at least. Please, Joannie. Don’t deny me this. Don’t deny me a chance to redeem myself.”
The words were a trap; there could be no friendship. If I slipped out of Imaging on that slow afternoon, whose foot would be the first to touch the other’s in the darkness under the table?
Cheryl, making a pretense of filing old paperwork, was listening to every word. She was never so busy as when there was a phone conversation she could eavesdrop on.
“I can’t take personal calls here.” I let the phone drop heavy into the receiver, wanting him to understand the finality of that conversation.
Cheryl gave me a conspiratorial smile. “He sounded cute.” She winked a heavily made-up eye.
“Not my type.”
Apparently hoping to draw her into this conversation, Cheryl turned to Doreen, the other receptionist in Imaging, but Doreen continued to stare, bored, out the door. Cheryl turned her red smile on me again. “Well it sure sounds like he thinks you’re his type.”
“He’s wrong.”
Doreen stood up. “I’m going for a cigarette.”
“Those things will kill you,” Cheryl chirped after her. Cheryl waited until Doreen was not quite out of hearing and stage-whispered, “I hate to see a young girl like that throwing her looks away.” Cheryl took a lot of care in this regard, with thickly applied make-up and Coke can curls. “Those cigarettes will turn her skin grey—I’ve seen it happen before—makes them look like ashtrays.”
I shrugged, “She’s fine.”
Cheryl pursed her red lips a moment. “Are you, a medical professional, honestly telling me that you think that she’s not hurting herself smoking those cancer sticks?” She smiled again, to show that she wasn’t serious, but I could already imagine how she’d twist my words.
I attempted some triage. “Well, obviously, smoking isn’t good for you, but she’s young and smart, and I’m sure she’ll quit when
“Oh, wandering somewhere.” She didn’t look at me.
“Without Pilate?”
“Your dad’s walks are a little long for Pilate now.”
Pilate, the dog who once went on Mom’s walks, Dad’s walks, and any other walks offered. Pilate, the inexhaustible. Now, he collapsed on the rug next to me, rolling halfway onto his back, his paw lolling lazily in the air as I rubbed his chest. I felt coming loneliness lapping at me even here: Mom in her chair with vegetables from the garden she could no longer tend, Foxy and Pilate dying in increments.
Mom and I made falafel while we waited for Dad. I chopped tomatoes and mixed cilantro yogurt, wondering if Not-Jed liked cilantro, wondering if he ever held it to his nose as I did now, to inhale its pungent freshness, or if he only knew the number to punch into the cash register. It was an important question.
Dave called me at work Monday. After months of carefully constructed privacy, he had taken the home and work numbers listed on the emergency card outside Foxy’s stall—a card I’d never before seen as a vulnerability.
He wanted lunch. His voice was upbeat and hopeful, like there was nothing strange in this. “No,” I whispered into the all too public phone. Cheryl kept stealing glances at me.
He paused and the edge of urgency sharpened his voice, “You said, ‘I regret nothing.’ I can’t stop thinking about that, about the way you looked at me when you said it. I know what that look meant, Joannie.” He waited for a response I wouldn’t give. “Joan, I need you in my life. And you need me. You don’t regret our time together, and neither do I.”
“Having no regrets doesn’t mean I’m going to make the same mistakes twice.” I let that sink in. “Having no regrets also means I don’t regret ending it with you.”
That stopped him for a moment, but he rallied. “Listen, I understand what we did was wrong. Maybe we can’t be all we were before, but I need you as a friend at least. Please, Joannie. Don’t deny me this. Don’t deny me a chance to redeem myself.”
The words were a trap; there could be no friendship. If I slipped out of Imaging on that slow afternoon, whose foot would be the first to touch the other’s in the darkness under the table?
Cheryl, making a pretense of filing old paperwork, was listening to every word. She was never so busy as when there was a phone conversation she could eavesdrop on.
“I can’t take personal calls here.” I let the phone drop heavy into the receiver, wanting him to understand the finality of that conversation.
Cheryl gave me a conspiratorial smile. “He sounded cute.” She winked a heavily made-up eye.
“Not my type.”
Apparently hoping to draw her into this conversation, Cheryl turned to Doreen, the other receptionist in Imaging, but Doreen continued to stare, bored, out the door. Cheryl turned her red smile on me again. “Well it sure sounds like he thinks you’re his type.”
“He’s wrong.”
Doreen stood up. “I’m going for a cigarette.”
“Those things will kill you,” Cheryl chirped after her. Cheryl waited until Doreen was not quite out of hearing and stage-whispered, “I hate to see a young girl like that throwing her looks away.” Cheryl took a lot of care in this regard, with thickly applied make-up and Coke can curls. “Those cigarettes will turn her skin grey—I’ve seen it happen before—makes them look like ashtrays.”
I shrugged, “She’s fine.”
Cheryl pursed her red lips a moment. “Are you, a medical professional, honestly telling me that you think that she’s not hurting herself smoking those cancer sticks?” She smiled again, to show that she wasn’t serious, but I could already imagine how she’d twist my words.
I attempted some triage. “Well, obviously, smoking isn’t good for you, but she’s young and smart, and I’m sure she’ll quit when
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