Molly and her goddamn daschund walk into my flat. That little thing scuffs up my hardwood every time and she knows it but she pretends. "He's so small," she says. I start planning air fresheners.
She's come for her bike and I don't know how she'll get it back. The dog—whatever his name is, something too human—has those teeny tiny little legs and I feel like any gear would kill him. "I was hoping you would walk it back with us." She could've told me that on the phone.
I don't like bikes and I don't like outside and I don't like her and I don't like how slow we're walking to her place. This pup has absolute power over her and everyone it passes. Short hair, short legs, short temper, one out of three ain't bad.
"Want to come in for a bit?" she asks, and I say no. I have to be getting back. She asks for what, for who, for why. And I say I have to be getting back. And I look inside and her floors are scuffed up something awful.
No comments:
Post a Comment