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I do have talented hands ;) See you then.

What did that mean? Such an odd response. I’ll have to remember to ask him about it on Friday. The message I missed is from Enzo.

News about appt?

It went well. Looks like he’ll be able to help me out. We scheduled a follow-up to discuss treatment plans.

Then it hits me. Masterbaker. Sounds like, well, I won’t say it. A juvenile sex pun…and no way to take it back. Ugh! After a moment, Enzo answers:

Gr8!!! Home late

I’ll leave some dinner in the fridge, if you’re hungry.

Thx

I hope Albert wasn’t offended by my remark. His flirting is always more, well, gentle than that crass joke, but he didn’t seem offended in his breezy response. I don’t want to push—he is married, after all—but it sure is nice to have a flirty friend.

“Hey, buddy, did you miss me?” Jake is waiting at the door when I get home, as I knew he would be. I strip off my mask and let them get some air before I take Jake on his walk.

“I think this calls for treats. Your dad had a successful appointment. Let’s see if we still have any of Albert’s cookies.”

Jake is only too happy to hear the T-word, gobbling the cookies down in a flash.

“Let me change, bud, and we can go to the park.”

The weather is cooling down, but we’ll be running most of the time, so I trade my nice pants for some athletic shorts. I don’t know what I, or Jake, would do if we lived somewhere with snow. Play in the snow, I imagine? I have no idea. Do dogs get too cold? I suppose I don’t need to worry about it, living here where we never get weather worse than rain.

I grab a few tennis balls and some water, strap everything away again with my mask, and we’re ready. Jake is already at the door, waiting with his leash.

“Such a good boy!”

Just as I hoped, our favorite park is almost empty. It’s a perfect spot, secluded and too small to have a playground, too large to have a community garden, with just the right amount of grass for Jake and a tennis ball. I nod to Robert, an amenable older fellow who often takes an afternoon constitutional with his walker, and then it’s time for fun. I set Jake free and throw the ball as hard as I can.

This is the high point of my day, every day. We’ll play this simple game to the point of exhaustion, a satisfying exhaustion for both of us, and hobble back home, ready to repeat the same thing tomorrow. Unfortunately, the joy is occasionally punctuated, but I never let that stop us.

Today, the punctuation is a comma, a short pause in our pleasurable afternoon.

Three teenagers—I’ve seen them many times before—pedal their bicycles down the winding sidewalk in the park. They’re aimless, lazily meandering and joking, bored with too much free time on their hands. Imagine having enough time to be bored! That’s a thing of the past, between work and boyfriends and doctors and the joy of an hour in the park with Jake. They’re not exactly looking for trouble but happy if they find it. I don’t think they’ve ever actually seen my tentacles, but word gets around. One yells, “Hey freak. How’s it hanging?”

I do the only thing I can do: ignore them, throw the ball to Jake again, and hope it won’t escalate. I’m imposing, so I’m certain they won’t try to start anything, and frankly, I’ve cultivated a look of menace I can deploy at any time. If they want a freak, I can give them a freak, at least as much as they can handle. A simple glare usually does the trick with low-level stuff like this. This bunch have never taken it much past a few names, but I’m an easy drive-by target that’s too good for immature minds to pass up.

It’s the older ones I need to watch out for, ones who have ossified into their beliefs and need some reason to validate them. So far, I’ve been lucky with this quiet suburban park and this time of the afternoon. My fun with Jake has never been punctuated with a period or an exclamation point.

“Hey Mom. How are the holidays going for you?”

How am I going to bring up the subject of my upcoming procedure? I really need to get their thoughts on it.

“Orion! It’s so nice to hear your voice. Everything is fine here, perfectly fine. You know your father. I’m doing everything I can to keep him off that ladder, but he has to do his lights.”

I’m not surprised. That’s my dad, always a go-getter.

“I thought one of the neighbor kids was helping with that.”

“He’s not a kid anymore! He’s away at college, but your sister has promised to drop by later this week to help.”

“How is she doing? We haven’t spoken in a while.”

“All good. Little Dakota is in third grade already—can you believe it?”