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The Dogwalker
by Shoshauna Shy

Years I’ve hoped that someone
single and semi-handsome
would ask me out – The salesman
at Everdale Mall who sold me
my sandals (then the Aerosoles
and Dexters), the lanky copywriter
from Level 4, my friend’s brother
jilted prior to his wedding – while
I hold off fixing supper till 8 PM
to make the night seem less long

when here the owner of my favorite
bowser on the eve of leaving for holiday
(a divorce with beret and blond moustache)
suggests we meet for dessert
so he can give me a key to his place

and in the interest of propriety,
I suggest we meet at his apartment
instead.
As if Fido were our chaperone.
As if eating pie with him in a cafe
would jeopardize my image.
As if meeting within view of his bed
was a wiser business decision.









 

 

 

 


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