Sleeping Dogs Lie

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Sometimes life turns on the smallest decision. On a Monday evening in October it came down to the fact that I chose to wear my black velveteen sneakers embroidered with silver moons and stars, and a storm blew in and poured buckets of rain.

Bob steered his car into the grocery store parking lot and found a slot half-way down the row. “Do you want to come in with me?” he asked. “I’ll only be a minute. I need to get some dog food for Jack.”

I opened the door and saw a good-sized puddle. I thought of my shoes. “I’ll wait.” The door made a solid thunk as I pulled it back.

His quick smile flashed. “I'll leave my keys in case you want to listen to the radio.”  He got out and locked the door behind him. The supermarket’s neon signs colored the raindrops that sparkled on his hair as he hurried inside.

I turned on the radio. The familiar clipped tones of the public radio station’s news commentator filled the air. I poked the buttons—all rock music or jazz. The only one tuned the same on both our cars was that first public station, and I wondered about the viability of a relationship based on mutual NPR membership. I began to search for classical music, got sidetracked by a country number I’d always liked, paused for the last bars of a Celtic fiddle tune, and finally found a station playing Copland.

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