The girl and the dog awaken in the same room. The light coming in from the small window is cold, the blue-gray tones of Midwestern winters. The space heater is on. The dog eyes the girl through her morning prayers. The girl brushes her teeth, changes her clothes, takes sips from the glass of water she left out last night. The dog watches her as she scoops wet food into its stainless steel bowl and sets it down on the hardwood. It looks her in the eye and walks away. This is the third morning the dog refuses to eat. The girl pitches the dish into the sink and chops an apple with vicious strokes of the largest kitchen knife. She sits at the table and eats, looking at the dog, which is now laying on a pillow in the corner of the room. Outside, some cats mewl at each other. Being disliked by a dog is said to be an unmistakable marker of moral failure, she remembers. The dog blinks at her and turns away, burying its face between its paws.
. . . syrupy, bubbling air. Like fresh cut rose stems dunked in ice water. Week-old blood stains turned brown. She will not notice the first day the birds start to sing again. Like the back of a library. Like her favorite neighborhood street cat, the pretty gray one with green eyes, skittering up a tree to eat the newly hatched baby finches. Coconut-scented shampoo. Putting water to boil. Can’t sleep. Soppy wet. Down her throat. Bare chest. Putting water to boil. Voices. People walking past the window. Putting water to boil. She burns her wrist on the edge of the pan, a brown slash bubbling up from the skin. Putting water to boil. Wet photographs. Teeth sharpened by honeycrisp apples and chunks of chuleta. The cheese aisle at the grocery store, the shelves of bread. Washing stainless steel bowls. Putting water to boil . . .
When the dog dies the next summer, it will be buried in the backyard at dusk. She will walk back into the house and immediately begin scrubbing the dirt out from under her fingernails. She will wash her hands. She will throw the dishes into the sink. She will finish off the last peach in three big bites and a sloppy crunch. She will remember the dog’s eyes that night. She will say its name, and as always, it will not come.
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