Page 20 of Brooklyn Cupid

“Bacon, huh? You are a dude, for sure. There.” I toss another one toward him, and it disappears in Pushkin’s mouth as he eagerly lifts his head, moves closer to me, and stares at the package in my hand.

I shake it, spreading the smell, gloating at the sight of the furry pirate taking slow steps toward me.

“Caaah-mon, shithead,” I tease him, shake several bits into my hand, and lower it to the floor.

In a minute, the white monster cleans off my palm and fingers with his tongue, then nuzzles my other hand that holds the package, and I stifle a victorious chuckle.

“Friends, yeah?” I get up and stick several bacon bits in my pocket. I’ll drive this dog insane. “Say a word for me to Lucy, will ya?”

Mission number one is accomplished.

Pushkin stares at me lovingly as I take my backpack to my room, shutting the door in his face. He whimpers, and I see a shadow under the door as he lowers himself to the floor and sniffs the air in the door gap, wanting more of that bacon.

He is sneaky, I feel it in my gut. So I don’t want him to see me take a gun out of my backpack and tuck it under my mattress.

There’s one more thing I need to do because it bothers me.

I walk out of my room and don’t even look at the pirate guy as I walk by, shaking the bacon bits in my pocket.

The soft clacking of Pushkin’s claws against the parquet makes me grin. Pushkin is now my bitch.

I walk to the lamp and take the bug I planted there the other day out.

I’ve made up my mind. Spying on Lucy is out of the question.

9

LU

My morning startswith the jingle of the keys in the hallway and the front door softly closing.

Jace.

I bury myself into the blanket cocoon, knowing that an hour later, the door will open again.

Jace gets up at dawn and goes for what I assume is a jog. I am yet to get up early enough to see if he wears glasses when he jogs. Or his black hoodie.

Usually, when I’m up, Jace is already gone.

Every morning, I make myself coffee and grits for breakfast, then take Pushkin out.

I took a picture of Pushkin with the pirate patch, made a quick flyer in Photoshop about him being lost, put my email address on it, and printed ten copies to post on the streets and at the local convenience store.

A week later, I receive an email, “I think your dog is Dogo Argentino, not a pit bull.” The only other emails I’ve gotten were the ones asking if I want to sell the pirate dog.

“No way, Jose,” I murmur, deleting yet another email with such a proposal and glance at Pushkin. “Looks like you are mine for right now, cutie.”

He likes watching me paint. Likes my choice of music, too, most of it, except the Australian didgeridoo.

I move the gothic canvas I’m working on against the wall. It’s seven by four feet, so the easel just makes it complicated. I put on socks so my feet don’t stick to the clear plastic covering the floor. The little paint spots don’t wash off, but I love them. Colors are the essence of life.

I work through lunch and into the late afternoon when Becky texts.

Becky: We are on our way.

She doesn’t ask, just lets me know.

My neck aches from craning it for too long at the canvas when I finally put the brushes and the mixing tray aside and wash my hands.

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