And there is Samantha, sitting in an idling Impala, a boxy number from the sixties. She’s smoking a cigarette and chewing gum, her hair streaked blond and clumped, like she’s been driving all day. I guess she’s been waiting for me. She slides over and opens the passenger door.
“Come on.”
I get in and she puts the car in gear. That’s all it takes—just stepping off the curb, into a car, and it’s the two of us once again.
“You know what I don’t get?”
No hellos, no catching up. It’s always like this.
“I don’t get why there are no dog petting zoos.” She rolls down the window and lets her arm hang out. “Then nobody would have to be responsible for one full time. We could just pay our money and go into a yard full of really nice, fluffy golden retrievers and dachshund puppies or whatever.”
