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right, and I just signed with the Yankees.” He laughed darkly.
    “Roger, I’m not kidding.”
    “We’re meeting Arnie and Sophie at seven. Remember? Their place?” He paused. “I suppose you forgot again.”
    She had. Fotis looked up at her as if sensing the need for moral support. She touched the top of his head. It was so soft; she smiled without realizing it.
    “I told you I, eh, I got this dog.”
    Roger was silent except for the sound of his mind ticking through a litany of theoretical possibilities.
    “Paula, what are you up to?” He chuckled with ridicule. She slouched as if ready to guard her midriff.
    “I have this dog,” she stated as if she couldn’t believe it herself. “I’m waiting for Celeste.”
    There was a long silence.
    “I, uhh, I don’t know what to say.” His snort was incredulous.
    She didn’t answer.
    His inflection made her think of Jimmy Baldacci, the kid who broke up with her in seventh grade. How strange to think of Jimmy after all this time. That Friday afternoon when she knew just by his posture as he approached he’d wanted his silver ID bracelet back.
    “It’s a very long story,” she said.
    “Why didn’t you answer?”
    “Like I said, I got this dog.”
    “You’ve said that three times.”
    Her heart sank at the mocking edge of his voice. An even longer silence enveloped them.
    “Paula, what are you doing?” He’d asked that exact question during their second week of married life after she’d marched into his bedroom, climbed under the covers and declared, “I’m not leaving. I didn’t get married to sleep alone on a couch for the rest of my life,” to which he’d asked, “Paula, what are you doing?” with the same quiet, belittling tone. With that she’d dug her nails into her forearm. Her heart sank as she got back up, left the room and headed downstairs.
    Paula ignored Roger’s question.
    “I might have to bring him home for now—”
    “My allergies—,” he interrupted her.
    “Nothing a little prednisone won’t fix—,” the words shot out before she could soften their meanness, their fodder being eight years doped up on powerful allergy medications to combat the mold and dust of his brownstone. Her allergist once looked questioningly at her, puzzled. “Tell me about how you live; what’s your house like?” That simple enough question uncorked a torrent of blubbering, snotty confessions. The doctor had reached to grab tissues from the counter. Slowly shaking his head, he’d watched as she blew her nose, looking directly to catch her eye. “Paula—find a better husband.”
    “Now’s not the time, Paula,” Roger said. Maybe the time would be right, as Eleni used to say, when “Aiyia Pote,” or St. Never’s Day, came .
    “My phone’s beeping,” Roger interrupted. “Just a minute. It’s Arnie,” he said. “Probably wondering where we are.” Roger exhaled with an impatience reserved for those he termed the “lesser gifted.”
    “I’ve got the dog.”
    “So leave it somewhere, Paula,” he raised his voice, more aggravated, less suspicious.
    “Leave him where?”
    “Wherever you found it; I don’t care what you do.”
    “Yeah, you really don’t…,” she said, meaning something else.
    “I’m leaving.” His voice became cool. “I trust you’ll find your way there.” It was a tone he used with disagreeable colleagues.
    She had nothing to say. The stone wall of his frustration was like a fist, getting in the last punch.
    Fotis settled down to lie on her foot, panting as he looked up at her. Damp warmth from his belly fur felt good.
    “I don’t know what else to say,” Roger concluded.
    “Yeah, well, I guess I don’t either,” she said.
    Paula ended the call and set the phone down, leaning back in the desk chair. She’d never mutinied against Roger before, not like this. Though the day was a blur of exhausting emotion, both her hands were relaxed and not clenched into balled fists like usual. It felt like the