It's Friday, Not the End of the World, Okay?

There's a couple in the parking lot, making out beside a truck. He's wearing a blue polo shirt, khaki shorts, baseball hat turned backwards. She's wearing a sundress, has blonde hair. They are going to Shady Grove for lunch, I guess. I watch them walk off, wondering if he has an erection. I would like to think that he did, and that he was happy to be walking around with it, half-hoping people would notice.

The dog sleeps on two pillows, one on top of the other, in a way that makes her look incredibly pampered.

My palms sweat and itch like they did when I ended up in the hospital. What are they trying to tell me?

I tell the dog I love her very much. I tell her she is the sweetest thing, that she and Daddy are the best things in my life. When I take out the trash, I tell her I'll be right back, to assure her she's not being abandoned. Maybe she doesn't really care. When I check the mail I say the same thing. I like to think it means something to her, the way "walk" and "treat" does. When I say to her, "I want to pick you up like a little baby," she bolts. When she was little I used to pick her up like that and whisper, "My baby, my baby, my baby," rocking her back and forth. Now, there's white hairs on her muzzle; she doesn't want to be picked up anymore.

I wonder what that couple are having for lunch-- I recommend the fried shrimp. I wonder if they are holding hands, if he's still chubbing. I like to think that he is.