The Girl and the Great Dane

across the road and onto the pavement, feet hitting wet concrete in that old, flat wanderer rhythm. and then I see her, walking dead ahead, just out of reach, a stranger I’ve already named Kate in the silent room of my mind.

beside her strides a Great Dane, a massive, ridiculous beast I’ve christened Claude Debussy. the two of them glide through the afternoon grey. Imagined names. in my chest, a cold knot of nerves twitches against my ribs, a dull, electric panic.

then the downpour hits, sudden, driving silver sheets that drum the world awake. rivers race through cracks in the damaged asphalt, while the sun fights back through the clouds, pulling a foul steam up from the hot pavement under the big oak tree on East Street. we walk on through the wet leaves, crunching loud underfoot like crisp rinds, the gravel popping and shifting beneath us, everything sodden and loud.

across the grassy verge, thick clumps of wet turf cling to my boots like a weight. and over in the meadow, the Jersey cows stand blank and heavy in the rain, wild daisies trampled into the mud at their feet. The air smells of soaked soil and distant, bitter woodsmoke.

It’s time, I think, my heart hammering against that tight knot, time to cross the asphalt and introduce myself to Kate.

because there is a distance, there was always a distance, the “we” was only ever inside my own skull, same as her name, same as the dog’s. I walked the whole mile fifty paces behind them, inventing an afternoon we never had.

her name isn’t Kate.
I haven’t crossed the road yet.
but the rain, the dog, the nerve—