As I came down the end of the trail that belonged to the mountain, the dog whose territory touched the incline ran at me, yapping. Ears a flopping. Stupid, random, happy yapping.

This time I bent down and extended palms. This time, she was part of what I was part of. Yappy bitchy silly animal.

Ten minutes later and I’ve sloughed off my winter wear. No smelly sweat in this weather, so only greasy hair and a face of wiry hair sparsely populated over a boyish face tells that I am badly in need of water and metal.

You look different. The alpha male and alpha female say. He is hunkier and smarter and cooler and sexier than any backstreet boy, and with a warm, beating, real and insistent heart. She is palpating with interest out of her raven hair, and down through the body that pulsates in tune with backstreat boy and the cool lighting of the eight-windowed room and her feet and her quietness. Her insistent quietness, like a throb that you can’t argue against. You can’t argue agaisn’t people like that. Their authentic question looked up at me, and I just liked them, like I liked the dog.

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