Don't Order Dog by C. T. Wente

almost predicted the image before seeing it – a young man in a black silk shirt adorned with a grotesque pattern of white flowers sat at an outdoor table, a gap-toothed grin stretched across his light brown face. His long dark hair was pulled back tightly against his scalp and shined with the luster of heavy pomade. Despite his wardrobe and hairstyle, the broad features of his twenty-something face gazed out from the picture with a warmth and happiness that Jeri couldn’t stop staring at, as if the man had just been given the greatest gift imaginable. Behind him, another man sat at the table, a beer clenched in his hand. Only his arm and a portion of his chest were visible beyond the young man in the foreground, but Jeri knew from the tanned, muscled arm and the familiar blue t-shirt exactly who he was.
    Sitting across from her at the bar, Allie read the letter and sipped on her wine.
    “Allie, did you–”
    Allie dramatically threw up her hand for silence. “Hold on, I’m trying to concentrate. And yes, I’ll take another glass of wine.”
    Jeri poured another healthy dose of Pinot Noir for her friend and placed the glass next to its empty, lipstick-stained predecessor. She stood quietly at the bar and watched Allie as she continued to read, a subtle grin drawn on her friend’s face.
    “Funny, huh?” Jeri asked.
    Allie chuckled briefly before catching herself and erasing the smile from her face. “Funny? No. I wouldn’t call it funny.” Her green eyes flashed up at Jeri. “Unless by funny you mean peculiar . But that’s not what you meant, is it? You meant funny as in humorous and cute . As in ‘Hey Allie, look, I’m getting chain mail from a creepy stalker who really likes me and hopes I can meet his parents one day and have his kids before he feeds me to his German Shepherds or stuffs me in a wood chipper. Am I right?”
    “Yes, I meant humorous in that kind of way.”
    Allie glared at Jeri for a moment before snatching the Polaroid from the bar and examining it carefully. “Let’s see what we have here,” she said, her voice high with sarcasm. “In the foreground, a handsome young man, Venezuelan I assume, with greasy long hair and utterly horrendous taste in clothes. He looks normal enough, though we all know that looks can be deceiving. A pleasant meal with friends at a street side café in Puerta Whatever. Oh, and speaking of friends… yes… there behind our young, poorly dressed soon-to-be-victim is our favorite stalker – Mr. Mysterious-Joe’s-Last-Stand-T-shirt-Guy.” She shot a snide smile at Jeri before continuing. “And how mysterious indeed. Once again our little friend has just managed to evade the camera. Another tantalizing glimpse of tanned skin and toned muscles, the oh-so-familiar faded blue Joe’s t-shirt that I hope to god he washes between photos, yet nothing of that elusive face that must surely be on par with Adonis and Brad Pitt.”
    “Really?” Jeri replied, “I was thinking more like George Clooney.”
    Allie flung the Polaroid onto the bar. “Goddammit Jeri, I can’t believe you’re actually walking into this. Why in the world would you even pretend to–”
    “Be right back,” Jeri interrupted as a young man and woman sat down at the far end of the bar. Allie bit her tongue and sighed audibly as Jeri walked away. A few stools away, a stout, middle-aged man with a military-style crew cut looked over at Allie and smiled. She could tell from his smug grin that he’d been eavesdropping on their conversation. She turned and looked at him sourly.
    “Can I help you?” she asked.
    “Hi. My name’s Tom,” the man replied. “Tom Coleman. Sounds like you and your friend are having a pretty serious conversation. Can I give you some advice?”
    Allie gave him a venomous look. “Hi Tom, my name’s not … as in not interested . Yes, my friend and I are having a serious conversation, and as soon as she returns we’re going to continue it. Feel free to continue