I’d been dumped by a man who was feeling ambivalent. We’d jumped into it all too fast. I adopted a coolly elegant tone and told him, “I set you free,” then hung up the phone and ugly cried for four weeks. Somewhere around week five, I got a fantastic breakup haircut, pretended I was fine, signed up for internet dating and assumed I’d never see him again.
Over dinner, he showed me a dog he had found online. A red tricolor Australian shepherd at an Aussie rescue in Lake Elsinore. I won’t lie: The dog had seriously photogenic profile photos. He asked me to come along for the first meeting.So there I was, conflicted about this newly defibrillated relationship, riding in the passenger seat to the Inland Empire. We pulled up to a house, and a dog with red curls the same color as mine raced back and forth at the fence, barking furiously.
And maybe I owe some credit to Los Angeles geography. It was 2008, a few months after the Writers Guild strike ended. Work was slow. Nobody was hiring yet. My apartment at Olympic and Robertson faced a busy alley and had no air conditioning. I had a group of single lady neighbors with whom I’d gather for wine in our Wooster Street complex , but my writerly “room of one’s own” suddenly felt small and hot and lonely.
The morning after a dinner party, I found him on top of the table, surrounded by crystal wine glasses, eating the remains of a cheese plate. Seeing me, he went in for a last bite and then leaped over the stemware with a Baryshnikov-like grace. I once caught him finishing a loaf of bread and wondered if he might actually be my biological son.
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