I unlocked the door and stepped inside the apartment. She sat across the room and stared. She has a special way of greeting me when I come home. She walks over to me, and I give her a kiss. Then she scurries off to find something to show me. The custom was abandoned tonight. She walked over. I gave her a kiss, but she didn't scurry off. Instead, she looked me over, in that knowing way. Every inch of my clothing was examined. With the precision of a CSI, she checked me out from top to bottom. Then she sat down next to me and stared. No sound, not a peep from her, just a piercing stare.
I had been with another, and she knew it. With a suspicious glare, she forced a confession. In her deepest moments of paranoia, my ex never managed to inflict such guilt on me, perhaps because I was never actually guilty of the things of which she accused me. But tonight, it was different. I was guilty. I'd been with a dog. I enjoyed being with the dog. I let the dog rub against me and lick my hand. I petted the dog, and rubbed her ears. And for a moment, a brief moment, I wished I had a dog.
Do you think she knows?