“Yes, I know,” he said to Dickens, capering at his feet. “I have to put some clothes on, right?”
Dickens’s bark was high and joyful. Alexander brewed himself a cup of coffee, showered, pulled on his sweats and sneakers. Without meaning to drag things out, he still didn’t reach for the leash until almost one o’clock in the afternoon. Cool air tightened Alexander’s skin, and the trees that lined the streets were giving up their green for red and gold and brown. It wouldn’t be many more days before some wind came and knocked the dry leaves into the gutters, but they still held on for now. Dickens strained at the leash, choking himself a little with eagerness. Alexander focused on breathing, staying calm. They’d gone to the dog park hundreds of times. This wouldn’t be any different. He’d take Dickens through the gate, let him off the leash, and wait, visiting with the other people there or reading the news off his phone, while the dogs ran and jumped and chased each other. Then, eventually, Dickens would trot back to him, scratch at his shin, and they’d go home together. The same as always. The same as ever.
Half a block from the park, the first sounds of barking reached him. Alexander’s body reacted like a sudden onset of the flu; his hands went cold, and he started to sweat. Nausea crawled up the back of his throat. Dickens tugged at the leash, pulling him on, and he set his teeth and forced one foot ahead of the other until they were at the gate. Inside, half a dozen animals ran in a pack over the grass and mud. Red tongues lolled from mouths filled with sharp ivory teeth. Muscles bunched and released along the flanks of a Doberman pinscher, the animal’s claws digging at the turf, throwing bits of mud and grass behind it. They were all so fast. Their barking was joyful and rich and inhuman. Bestial. Alexander’s vision dimmed at the sides. Narrowed. His heart was tripping over too fast. His breath shook like a storm.
Dickens scratched at the green-painted iron gate, both forepaws working too fast to follow, then looked back at Alexander, expectant. Confused. Alexander gagged, the taste of coffee and vomit at the back of his mouth. He stepped back, dragging Dickens with him.
“Come on boy,” Alexander said, the words shuddering. “Let’s go. Let’s go home.”
Dickens set his feet on the sidewalk, head low and pulling back against the leash. Alexander yanked harder than he’d meant to, and the little dog sprawled. Dickens’s eyes registered surprise, then confusion, then hurt. Alexander turned, his teeth gritted tight against the nausea, his arms and legs shaking, and pushed for home. After the first few steps, Dickens stopped pulling back on the leash, but he didn’t dance or caper anymore. Just walked along behind, his gaze never rising above knee height.
Alexander sat at the little kitchen table for a long time, his hands on his thighs. His mind felt empty and raw. Sandblasted. Dickens didn’t come near, didn’t press his nose into Alexander’s lap. Instead, he curled up on the couch where he wasn’t supposed to be and looked away. The sun shifted, the angles of the shadows growing thinner, the light turning darker and red. Near sundown, Alexander became aware that his bladder was screamingly full, pulled himself up to standing, and made his way back to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet, head in his hands. Guilt and shame and a bone-deep exhaustion made the early evening feel like midnight. If it hadn’t been for the autonomic demands of his body, he’d have sat still as a stone until morning.
He took a shower, the hot water making his skin pinker, the pale scars white by comparison. When he got out, he stood in front of the mirror for a long time, his gaze tracing what damage could be seen. The bedroom clock told him it was just past seven, and he had to check his phone to convince himself it was true.
Dinner was a frozen serving of butter chicken run through the microwave until the apartment smelled rich with it, and a glass of ice water. There were sitcoms on TV, so he sat there, letting other people’s laughter wash over him, and joining in by reflex. Before, he would have gone out to a bar, maybe. Gotten together with friends. Tried his spotty luck with his online dating service. Every option seemed impossibly hard. And more than that, dangerous. If he did something, he might lose the quiet numbness in his head, and he still wanted it. Still needed it.