inauspicious beginnings

It was a Sunday. I remember because I'd spent the night before at his house and I only ever did that on Saturdays. Later - like when the world turned upside down - I spent more than Saturday nights, but not then.

The first Saturday I'd just shown up at three in the morning, scared out of my mind because I'd managed to pick up a follower in the Common and didn't want to lead him to my apartment, where I lived alone. Well, I had a cat, and he had many endearing qualities, but Big Brave Serial Killer Repeller wasn't one of them.

So there I was, banging on his door in the middle of the night with god only knows who watching very closely from the bottom of the stairs, and just when I knew he wasn't home...

Oh, sure, pick TONIGHT to get a life! SURE! Hope you're having a GREAT time! Hope my dead body on your doorstep doesn't deflect too much from your FUN!

...he opened the door.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he shouted. "Are you high?!"

"No, asshole, I'm not, but I'm going to be dead if you don't let me in!"

That's when he noticed the scary, drunk man hovering at the bottom of his steps. He yanked me into his foyer while shouting as loudly as he could, knowing it would wake up everybody on his quiet street, knowing they'd all turn their lights on as they dialed 911.

The next morning he gave me a toothbrush and a key to his house, and so started a Saturday night routine; wherever I was, wherever he was, whether we had plans together or not, we'd both end up in his kitchen to share a pot of coffee before sharing a bed.

So, I know that day was a Sunday, because I woke up in his house with a hangover and his head on my shoulder.

We went for a run that morning. It was July, and it was hot. We stopped to sit on a bench in the Common...not such a scary place during the day...and watched people walk by while we caught our breath. When the man with the goofy-looking Bassett walked by, we both started laughing...mostly at the dog, but also at the man.

Hey, I never claimed we were nice.

The man, a blond-haired, blue-eyed aging hippy, must have heard us, because he looked over his shoulder and glared at us.

“Why do people always look at us like that?”

“I don't know,” I replied. "But maybe because we're not really nice to them."

“Oh. Right. As long as there's reason, then."

We watched as the dog took advantage of her owner's distraction and took off after a duck. The dog ended up in the middle of a wading pool, chasing the hysterically flapping duck in a giant circle while parents grabbed their kids and dove for cover.

We were doubled over and breathless, tears of laughter streaming down our faces, when the man turned to glare at us again.

"That's right, laugh," he shouted. "Ha, ha, it's funny!"

I'm not sure what prompted me to do it, but I got up, kicked off my running shoes, and waded out to where the dog and the duck were playing chase. I knew the dog's name, having heard the man shout it more than once, so I called to her. She promptly forgot about the duck and waddled over to me. I fished her leash out of the water and took her back to her owner.

"Go easy on her," I said as I handed him the leash. "That duck was asking for trouble."

Sighing, and maybe even smiling a little, he took his dog and introduced himself to me. I was about to share a handshake and my name with him when suddenly there was an arm across my shoulders.

"I keep telling Lemony she shouldn’t run off after every stray she finds, but she feels bad for them.”

And that's when I knew we were in trouble.

“Scout isn’t a stray," the blond hippy said, frowning.

Aw, hell, man, don't you know you're not supposed to engage him when he's like this? Shut UP...

"I wasn't talking about the dog."

Oy.

I grabbed his hand before he could say anything else, squeezing until I felt his knuckles grind together. "I try to keep him away from people," I said.

"You should try harder," was all I heard as the man walked away, dragging his dog behind him.

I remember him squeezing my hand then, his way of apologizing for being, well, him.

"Do you still love me?" he asked.

"No," I said, but I was smiling. "You're an ass."

He laughed. "I love you, too, darlin'."

We made our way back to his house, and after a few hours of painting his kitchen we had both forgotten all about the blond hippy and his runaway dog.

What happened later came as a surprise to all of us.