Pooch

Poetrybay's Flash Boulevard 2018
“How much do you want for this dog of yours?” The stunner who was sitting on the park bench across from me asked. She’d gotten up and walked over, scratched Pooch behind the ear and, hands on her hips, staring right at me, outright asked.
“What in the world makes you think the dog’s for sale?” I asked her back.
“You’ve been staring at me for the past fifteen minutes like I was a piece of meat hanging in a butcher shop window. If you have the right to think I’m that available than I have the same right to think that about your dog.” She sat down close to me and Pooch got up and walked over and dropped his head in her lap. The stuff dogs can get away with, I thought.
“Do you really want a dog?”
“Do you just like staring or do you really want me?” she asked.
“People watching is something that most people do. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You weren’t people watching—you were only looking at me and I’d call that staring, not people watching. Were you fantasizing?”
“Fantasizing?”
“Yes fantasizing. Were you fantasizing about the two of us?”
“You certainly say what’s on your mind, don’t you?”
“I think I was saying what’s on your mind.”
“There’s nothing wrong with looking at a beautiful woman and if I offended you I apologize.”
“No apology needed, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“About fantasizing?” I asked.
“Yes. About fantasizing.” She said.
“Perhaps,” I said. “And by the way, you look familiar. Do I know you?”
“Is that the best line you have?” she asked.
“At this moment, but I’m serious. What’s your name?”
Just then another beautiful woman walked over to their bench. “Thanks for watching my dog, Mister. I appreciate it. I see you met my sister. C’mon, Sis, we gotta run or we’ll be late.”
Sis reached into her purse and handed me a card. She stood and took Pooches leash and the three of them walked off into the mid-day. I watched for a while and then remembered the card. It read, “Call Us.” I turned it over. VPM. Very Personal Massages—so good you can’t even fantasize about them—and a phone number.
I ran my finger across the embossed card and leaned back on the park bench and closed my eyes thinking about what just took place. I awoke to the sound of children playing.
I looked for the card but it was gone. I must have dropped it while I dozed off and even though I searched for the next fifteen minutes, walking around the bench in ever wider circles I never found the card and never saw the beautiful sisters or their dog on my subsequent visits to the park in the next couple of weeks.
Three weeks later my wife found the card when she was going through my pockets before her dry cleaning run. Since I couldn’t explain how I got it I just had to put up with her snide comments and coldness for a while. She walked to our home office and she shredded the card while I watched and fantasized about hiring an nimble-fingered Iranian child rug maker to put it back together for me.

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