Thinksgiving

Farah threw herself all over me, like she always does whenever we meet.

I had never considered until then that I could probably get something from her pretty easily.

I promised Chad that I wouldn't, so, that's that.

Farah would complain about how things are boring and awkward. Whenever there was a lull in any conversation, she would say, "Awkwaaard," with some faux anxiety.

That never improves the situation. Does she realize that? She probably doesn't care.

I guess it's not enough to look in the mirror. Just today, I said my own name out loud, and it sounded completely foreign to me.

Farah talked to Rick while she was clinging on to me. She brought up Emily Wolfe. I wished she hadn't, even though I wasn't in a position to feel anything.

People were looking for somewhere to go and something to do. Larry offered up his place, but I was in no mood for any more buses.

So the meeting soon reached an evolutionary dead end. We parted like a newspaper in a rainy gutter.

I dropped Charles and his two friends off at his house. I only remembered one name, since it was just a letter - E.

I was ready to drive home and wash my hands of everyone I knew when Tim called. He told me to go to the Warren household - John had Battlestar Galactica episodes on CD waiting for us. They were on the toaster in the kitchen.

On the road, I was certain that someone was following me. Even when I took a wrong turn, the car was right there behind me. Of course, it did not follow on the next turn.

I pulled in front of the Warrens' place. Tim told me the CDs were on the toaster - did he expect me to go in and get them myself?

At our house, friends rarely knock or ring the door bell before entering - especially not John. I figured the practice was the same at his house.

Still, I was hesitant. I opened the screen door and knocked. There was no response. It was late, and I didn't want to ring the door bell. So I opened the door and stepped in.

Mario came up and started barking like crazy. Considering I was an unannounced visitor, I couldn't really blame him.

Mario knows me. At least, I thought he did. I thought dogs were good at that sort of thing.

At the time, there was a dog residing in my house, as well - my cousin's dog, Ozzie. He's a good dog. Quiet, calm, amiable, and he can be easily led from the room if you just don't want him around.

Using my relationship with Ozzie as a model, I figured I could reason with Mario.

"Hey, hey," I said. "Easy." I lowered myself slightly, presenting my hand to him as a gesture of trust.

And then Mario bit me.

I had never been bitten by a dog before, so I was kind of surprised by how it felt. It felt a lot like my middle finger had been slammed in a door.

Mario kept barking. I stepped backwards out of the house, and the screen door closed in front of me. Mario had successfully ejected me.

I looked down at Mario through the door. He was still barking. I looked at my finger. It was too dark to see what kind of mark may have been left. I thought about reaching in to close the front door, but I didn't want to rile up Mario again.

I reached for my phone and called John.

"John, are you at your house right now?"

"No, I'm in the city."

"Oh. Is anybody in your house right now?" Besides Mario, I mean.

"Let me check."

He hung up. As I put my phone away, I noticed blood on my coat - right on the front, and another blotch on each sleeve. Even in the faintest light, its vibrant red hue was striking. I smiled.

By this time, Mario had retreated to the stair case a little ways beyond the entrance, staring me down. In a moment, Mrs. Warren descended from the steps behind him, went into the kitchen, and came back with the CDs, wrapped in yellow notebook paper.

"It looks like you've already been in."

"Yeah, I was, but, uh, Mario nipped me."

She invited me in for a bandage. In the kitchen, she saw the blood on my coat. She took soap and cold water and wiped it off.

"Mario, you fuck," she muttered.

Mario sidled up to me, looking up and slightly to the side. He was not barking. He seemed apologetic enough.

Everyone has passions. Some let them bubble over, coating everything in a hot, musky sheen. Some curb them until they seep out through the pores. Some are too sensitive to notice. Some are too sensitive to live by anything else.

I wonder what Mario smelled on me that night?