Gloria’s Pet
by Michael Colbert
Hot Nate brings his Aussie to Gloria’s Pet the same day I bring Trixie in for grooming. We met when all this started. Meagan and I were stuck at home, but Trixie never had to stop visiting the groomer. If anyone would find a way to stay open, it’s Gloria. Hot Nate and I met in line outside. He strolled up behind me. His tank revealed a geometric bird tattoo up his biceps. Even though he’s always just gone running, he never really smells.
“Nice mask,” I said day one. It was a nice mask, tie-dye.
“Thanks,” he said. “Yours too.”
Which it isn’t, but, whatever. Mine are made of blue paper. I pull them by the strings when I get in the car and watch through the windshield as Hot Nate strolls back to his Honda Fit. He bends his head to fit through the door and drives away with one hand out the window.
Meagan and I watch movies every night. She likes to fall asleep on the couch so we don’t have to talk much before bed. Meagan and I met on an app a while ago and came to her parents’ second home when she said we should flee. Meagan describes her subscriptions to the New Yorker as aspirational. Meagan was sleeping with other men and never thought I’d notice. Now we’re stuck here and don’t know what to say. We’ll talk about it one day maybe. Last night she slept through In the Mood for Love, and I thought maybe she was signaling something. I was the partner cheated on.
Which would imply Hot Nate’s the cheated-upon too. Hot Nate must have a boyfriend or husband that works on Wall Street and relocated them here. Hot Nate must be a personal trainer or a yoga teacher relegated to online instruction. Hot Nate makes eye contact with me in line, which is the most contact I’ve gotten in a while.
“Never seen you at Gloria’s until recently,” he says.
“I’m hiding here for now,” I say. I nod at Trixie. She goes all doe-eyed for Nate, humps his Aussie, licks her butt. “Trixie’s high maintenance.”
“A high maintenance pooch,” Hot Nate says.
His must be too. We see each other every two weeks. I call Trixie a high maintenance pooch and Meagan asks why I’m saying that all the time now.
Here’s another thing about Hot Nate: his smoky eyes. I have this thing about eyes. They’re so fragile. I'm afraid of puncturing them, of acid thrown onto corneas, that kind of stuff. Without lips, a nose to watch while we talk, I have to focus on Hot Nate’s eyes, otherwise mine will trail over his arms, the keyboard of his ribs beneath his shirt, the sigh where his shorts cut off above the knee. Hot Nate’s boyfriend must expect things from him. He’ll do the shopping and the dishes and report to Gloria’s. Or maybe Hot Nate chooses to come to Gloria’s too. Besides, an Aussie can’t really need that much grooming. And Gloria isn’t so nice you’d want to see her every two weeks. You check out and she always lodges some complaint about your dog’s behavior, like your dog is this big disappointment. So, I just glare at the fish that swim behind the same glass with no new people to adopt them. Maybe I could bring one to Meagan to broker peace.
Which isn’t really mine to broker. Meagan goes outside to talk on the phone. She has work meetings in the sunroom and slinks out the screen door to the steps when she has a phone call. She says she likes the change of scenery, a break from her room. From her bedroom upstairs, I hear her coo into the microphone. I watch her disappear down the road to talk to her other men. Once she’s gone, I close the blinds. On top of the comforter, I climax seeing Hot Nate, the parking lot, our biweekly rendezvouses come to be.
I wait for him to broach the subject for a few weeks. Meagan says I play games, but so does she. Hot Nate says he works in tech and lives here year round. He mentions a husband, and I think, game on. I start speaking up because we know where this is going.
“How is that?” I ask when he mentions his husband.
His eyes do nothing. They dull. I look for a twitch beneath his mask. He says, “Good,” and goes inside. He shuffles past me without holding the door.
So next time I ask, “How’s your quarantine going?”
He’s terse. He’s cordial. He says, “We’re getting into Ozark,” and I nod and say, “No way, us too.” I pick up Trixie from Gloria and she says in her deadpan, “You missed your friend. He calls you a flirt.”
I chew my lip behind my mask. Trixie sits in the passenger seat and I pet her fluffy hair in the Starbucks drive-through. Home, I hand Meagan her almond milk latte. She says thank you, sips, says, “I like oat milk.” Condensation beads from the cup, and when the ice melts, I watch the liquid separate. My hand presses prints from the puddle on the counter.
I will say something to Hot Nate, will say, I think of you, want to be with you, then will tell Meagan, we’re done, we’re through. We can quarantine together, couple our dogs, save Gloria the trouble of double customers, double transactions. We are in the mood for love.
Hot Nate’s already waiting. I line up behind him and say, “Hey, Nate.”
He waits with his back to me, twirls the leash in his fingers. I watch the mask lift from his face when he opens up to say, “Either say what you want or fuck off.”
But I can’t say any of it, don't know how he expects me to articulate it. So behind his mask, I see him smile. He says, “Great,” and slinks inside.
Michael Colbert loves horror films (his favorites are Candyman and Silence of the Lambs) and coffee (his favorites are Ethiopian and Costa Rican). He’s currently pursuing an MFA in fiction at UNC Wilmington, and his writing appears or is forthcoming in Barrelhouse, Southern Humanities Review, and Kyoto Journal, among others.
