2
River
“Who’s a good girl?”
Delilah wags her tail, thumping it against the hard-packed earth, the Golden Gate Bridge a majestic arch behind her.
“That’s right. You’re the best girl in the world,” I tell the planet’s greatest dog as we finish a hike in Muir Woods on a chilly Friday morning, with the spectacular vista of the Pacific Ocean as our backdrop. “You deserve a special dog biscuit when we get home. What’s that, you said?” I wait for her answer, then respond. “Of course I got you one from the gourmet, organic dog bakery. As if I’d shop for you anyplace else.”
Bending down, I pat the front of my fleece jacket. My black and white Border Collie mix jumps up and paws me and licks my face, making me laugh. Then, we cover the last hundred yards to my car, where I grab a collapsible dog bowl, pour her some water from a bottle, and let her indulge.
I snap a slow-mo shot of her drinking water, since dog tongue is funny, and send it to Owen.
River: Hate to break it to you but Delilah already claimed shotgun for the trip.
Three bubbles dance on the screen forever as I pick up the bowl, dump the rest of the water on the ground, then open the back door for my girl. Once inside, I buckle her into her doggy harness.
“Seriously, you should model this. You need to be a spokeswoman for dog seat belts,” I tell Delilah.
My pooch tilts her head to the side, then wags her tongue, which means Yes, I know, I’m a brilliant, well-trained, and eminently beautiful beast, but I won’t let it go to my head.
I hop into the front seat, when Owen’s reply appears at last.
In the form of a picture of his orange cat.
Walking away.
Tail in the air.
Like only a cat can do.
River: Goldilocks is such a cat. Anyway, Delilah is feeling generous so she’ll let you sit in the front seat once we drop her off at my sister’s.
Owen: How magnanimous of your dog to give me the front seat when she’s NOT USING IT.
River: She can be generous now and then. All right, I need to shower. Pick you up in an hour.
Owen: How long do you take to shower, man? Are you taking a spa shower with hot stones and gardenia lavender body wash or something?
Rolling my eyes, I tap out a reply.
River: I just went for a three-mile hike. This body doesn’t come in a bottle. I gotta work for it!
Owen: Mine does. I ordered it online. Try it sometime. But you didn’t answer the question. What kind of showers do you take? Are you getting hosed down in there by the men’s swimming team?
River: If that were happening, I’d need much more than an hour, I assure you.
Owen: I’m assured. But I feel confident that’s not happening. So, I ask again. What’s the story with you and showers? I’m in and out in five minutes and out the door in fifteen.
River: Are you bragging about being speedy?
Owen: Yes, River. WHEN IT COMES TO SHOWERS. NOT EVERYTHNG IS ABOUT SEX.
River: It’s not??? Since when???
Owen: Fine. One percent of things aren’t about sex. Anyway, see you in an hour after you take the world’s longest shower. Also, don’t answer why they take so long. I know why.
River: It’s not the shower that takes that long. It’s everything I have to do. For the record, I’m in freaking Muir Woods! I have to get across the bridge, drive to Russian Hill, go to my house, take a shower, grab my bag, Delilah’s bag, the food stuff, a jacket, get back in the car, and then drive to Hayes Valley to pick up your sarcastic ass. Think about everything I’m pulling off—I’m like Flash.
Owen: River, are you bragging about being speedy?
I huff. Damn him, getting me all twisted. I bang out a final note.
River: See you in fifty-five minutes on the goddamn dot.
Forty minutes later, I give my girl her well-deserved organic biscuit, then Delilah and I bound down the front steps of my building to my wheels. As I click the key fob, my phone rings.
Rolling my eyes in anticipation of Owen giving me a hard time about who the hell knows what, I hit answer before I check who’s calling.
“I’m on my way. I did not take a shower in gardenia body wash. I used forest rain, and it’s super manly. And you better be ready.”
A deep laugh rumbles across the phone line. “Well, I guess that makes things clear. Also, someone is bossy.”
Oh. That’s not Owen.
Opening the door, I toss my overnight bag on the floor of the back seat. “My bad. I thought you were Owen. Hi Grant,” I say.
“And does Owen like it when you’re bossy?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say, but that raises an excellent question. Does he like bossy in bed?