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“Hmm.”
It’s the most I can muster as a response. Connor knows me well enough not to push it, so we keep working.
After the workout, as the sun is rising, we walk out toward his truck.
“Are you going to see Marty about the tattoo soon?”
I swallow, nodding, finding it difficult to think about Sergeant. I got a tattoo of Gunner soon after he passed, but I’ve held off on Sergeant. Some people might say that’s because of how he ended his life, the German Shepherd with that glint in his eyes, that smile even when he was growling.
“Yeah,” I say. “Today, in fact. I think it’s time.”
“He was a hell of a dog,” Connor says. “A hell of a friend.”
“Yes. He was.”
“You got a busy day apart from that?”
“A few one-on-one sessions.”
Those are my favorite sorts. I’m a dog trainer, and part of that job is giving classes, but I’m far more comfortable working exclusively with one animal than I am standing in front of a class of people.
Connor offers me his fist. “See you tomorrow, brother.”
I bump it. “And you.”
Running back toward my apartment, my thighs burn and my calves ache. I run by a doorway where a man is saying goodbye to a woman, holding her, then giving her a passionate kiss.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself.
I’ve got my work.
I don’t need a woman.
***
Later, I pull up outside Marty’s studio. He’s ex-military and the place where Connor and I get all our tats done.
The sun is at its peak now, bleeding through the thick, silver clouds, reminding me of how long I’ve been awake. I’ve already had three one-on-one sessions with dogs who needed various degrees of help.
The tattoo studio is all glass on one wall, meaning I can sit with my back against the opposite wall and get a view of the street through the cloudy design on the glass spelling Marty’s name.
“He shouldn’t be too long,” the receptionist tells me.
I nod, watching cars pass by outside.
The buzz of the tattoo guns being used in the next room reminds me of silly, out-of-place things, especially since I retired from the military eight years ago.
“Hey, Luna,” the receptionist says as the main door opens.
I look over, just to check. Check what? This stranger in a civilized city in a nice part of town isn’t going to suddenly pull a rifle.
Whatever. I look, and my world suddenly changes.
The howling comes back, but it’s a different sort than before, like an animal inside of me is finally free, bashing at the bars of its cage, expanding until there’s nothing but shredded metal.
The woman is young, perhaps half my age. I shouldn’t even be looking at her, let alone thinking about charging across the room and bringing her into my arms, holding her tight, telling her she’s everything I ever wanted.
Thisstrangeris the woman I used to dream about when the bullets started flying.
She’s on the shorter side, her body curvy in her faded blue jeans and her punk black top. Her hair is tied up in a ponytail, giving me a perfect view of her cute features, her somehow simultaneously shy and sassy smile, her wide eyes, and her button nose.
Turning, she looks at me, then takes a step back, like she’s shocked.
Maybe she is. I’m staring at her like she already belongs to me. Because, in my mind, she does. She was mine the second she walked through the door.
