Pet Shop Boys: A Short Story by Kim Harrison

 
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    “G ood luck with the puppy,” Cooper called as the boy leaned back against the glass door, the bells ringing as he tried to push it open. It wasn’t until the boy’s dad lent a hand that the night air slipped in with a dusting of snow and they got outside, their new bundle of yaps and wet spots on the carpet wiggling in the boy’s arms.
    “And have a merry Christmas,” he muttered as the door jingled closed behind them. He didn’t like selling dogs and cats when there were strays that needed homes, but the owner, Kay, insisted on always having dogs, and sometimes cats. The Lab pup was the last of the litter, and the shop now felt empty without the soft snuffing and hush of paws on newspaper.
    Tired, Cooper rubbed the back of his neck, head bowed as he came around the counter to hang up the six collars the father and boy had been deciding between. Snatching a fold of newspapers, he knelt by the open-topped mesh corral to wad up the used paper and lay new for the next litter. The bubbling of the fish tanks and twittering of finches slowly returned the pet shop into the peaceful haven that had convinced him to work here at minimum wage instead of taking the professor’s assistant job he’d turned down three years ago.
    Kay might have had something to do with it, though. Sex in jeans with her own money, she seemed to enjoy his company but kept him totally at arm’s length. He didn’t get it. Every time he was tempted to bag it, she gave him just enough encouragement to stay. God, he was a chump. He didn’t want to be thirty and still cleaning up someone else’s dog crap.
    Grimacing, he rose to throw the papers away, pushing through the sheets of milky plastic that separated the back room from the store. The storage room/office was cold—it had been snowing all day with only the dog people coming in since it had become dark. He was tempted to flick the Closed sign around early, but Kay would give him hell for closing before eight.
    It’d give me an excuse to talk to her , he thought as he trashed the papers and grabbed the disinfectant spray. Kay spent most of her time in the back when she was in. Cooper was the one who actually ran the place—except for the dogs. Kay brought them in from some exclusive breeder. The cats were from a local shelter.
    The warmth of the store was welcoming as he slipped back through the plastic curtain. A quick spray, and the round kennel was clean, all evidence of the dog erased under the scent of bleach. Cooper straightened with a sigh. Twenty-five and a pet shop geek. He’d swear Kay wasn’t gay—the occasional flirting suggested otherwise. Maybe it was him.
    The sudden whirling of the birds in their cages brought his head up, and the hair on the back of his neck pricked. Feeling like winter had slipped in under the door, Cooper turned to the big plate-glass windows dark with night and the peaceful falling snow in the streetlight. His eyes widened at the little girl, no more than nine, standing in the middle of the aisle: white tights, little black shoes, and a coat made of black fur. Her vividly red hair was straight under a matching fur hat, and her hands were hidden in a muff.
    “Oh! Hi!” Cooper stammered, pitching his voice high as he looked for a parent. “You surprised me! How long have you been in here?” She must have come in while he was in the back, but he hadn’t heard the bells ring.
    The little girl beamed. “Did I?” she said cheerfully, seeming to think it funny to have scared a grown-up. “May I see the kittens?”
    Cooper nodded as he set the spray bottle on a back counter, trying to hide his annoyance. He liked kids, but not when their parents dropped them off as if he was a babysitter—especially fifteen minutes to closing. “Sure, but don’t let them out, okay?”
    Huffing a sigh of preteen independence, she strode confidently to the multistory cat cage. Crouching, she made a tiny trill of sound, and two gray heads and one black one