Page 22 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“That’s because he’s seen war.”

“I’ve seen war,” said Mr. Alvarez. “It’s called Midtown lunch rush.”

I had no rebuttal. A few minutes later, when Max and I had finished our food, I thanked them both and gathered our things.

As I slipped the little tray into the trash and adjusted my grip on Max’s leash, Elena grinned at me. “See you next week, maybe.”

“Assuming I haven’t been banned.”

Mr. Alvarez waved a dismissive hand. “You not banned. Dog not banned. Only German.”

I put a hand to my heart. “Thank you.”

Halfway down the block, I looked down at Max and said, “We almost needed a new hot dog vendor.”

Max glanced up at me, unconcerned. Then he sneezed.

“Right. Of course. Entirely my fault.”

He stayed close to my side as we kept walking, the city all around us honking and shouting, steaming and glittering in that grubby, gorgeous way that only belonged to New York. Behind us, I could still hear Elena laughing.

I smiled despite myself and tugged lightly on the leash. “Come on, soldier. Let’s go commit some more cultural misunderstandings.”

Grand Thrift Oughta occupied the ground floor of a narrow Chelsea building. It had a purple awning and the windows were so crowded with sequins, lamps, lacquered side tables, and a ceramic greyhound that it looked less like a retail establishment and more like the aftermath of a very glamorous estate dispute.

We’d barely made it through the door before a voice from the back called, “Is that my favorite grandpuppy I’m hearin’ or am I finally havin’ a stroke?”

“It’s us, Octavia,” I said with a smile.

“Well, praise the Lord and Saint Laurent!”

Out from behind a rack of winter coats trundled Octavia Andreas. Eighty years old and four-foot-nine-and-a-half on a generous day, she wore a teal caftan under a men’s brocade smoking jacket, her silver hair pinned up in a precarious bun with two lacquered chopsticks. A pair of rhinestone cat-eye glasses sat low on her nose, and in one hand, she held a paper cup of dog treats.

I’d met her my sophomore year of college, when I’d come in half-panicked, looking for something to wear to an awards dinner I had no business being invited to and even less money to attend. Octavia had given me a once-over and produced a black velvet dress with dramatic sleeves.

After that, I kept coming back. First, it was only for clothes, but then I found myself coming back for conversation. At some point I stopped being a customer she liked and became, in the way older women sometimes decide these things, one of hers.

“Come to Nana,” she said to Max, lowering herself into a regal crouch. “I got liver bites and dried salmon, because unlike some people I believe in treating a handsome man with proper treats and not that processed nonsense.”

Max, who had standards about strangers and was generally suspicious of enthusiasm not backed by credentials, went to her immediately and sat. Then, because he wasn’t a fool, he offered his paw.

“That’s right,” Octavia crooned, feeding him a few treats. “You go tell your mama what a gentleman looks like.”

“I’m standing right here,” I said, already preparing myself for Octavia’s matchmaking antics.

She looked up at me over the rims of her glasses. “You’re in your twenties, with those cheekbones and a law degree, and yet you keep showing up in here on Sundays with only the dog on your arm. Frankly, it’s wasteful.”

I laughed and bent to rub behind Max’s good ear while he chewed his treat. “You say that like I haven’t rejected at least three of your candidates.”

“Four,” she said. “You forget my nephew from Astoria.”

“The crypto one?”

“The dentist.”

“Oh, right. The one who said loafers were pretentious.”

Octavia pressed a hand to her chest. “A criminal opinion.”