The streets were thronged with everything from petal busses to microcabs. There aren’t so many solar vehicles here—they’re not much good over the winter—but we have a bike share. I was early today—Ilya being home always slowed me down—and the weather was nice enough that I even thought of picking one up from the stand near the Metro and riding in to work today, but I hadn’t brought a change of clothes except shoes, and I didn’t want to spend the whole night sweaty.
I did spot one old petrol limousine. It stank, and the powerful whirr of its engine made me itch to scoop up a big rock and hurl it through the passenger window. I was stopped by the fact that it was probably bulletproof, and also by the other fact that anybody who could afford to own and operate a gasoline auto could also afford bodyguards who would think nothing of running me down and breaking my arms when they caught me.
I was wearing better shoes, today. But I didn’t have much faith in my ability as a sprinter.
So I turned aside, and descended into the Metro.
I was early for my train. As I waited, my friend the ovcharka trotted up and sat down beside me. Her black-tipped, amber coat was shedding out in huge wooly chunks, leaving her sleek guard hairs lying close side by side. She looked up at me and dog-laughed, tongue lolling.
I remembered the sausage, and also that I had forgotten to eat breakfast. I split it with her. She took her share from my fingers daintily as a lady accepting a tea sandwich.
When the train came, we boarded it together. There were several seats, and I expected her to take one while I took another. But instead, when I sat, the dog curled up on my feet with a huff that I didn’t know enough Dog to interpret.
We rode in silence to my usual stop for work. It was a companionable feeling, the sort of thing I wasn’t used to. Just quiet coexistence. I understood for a minute why people might like dogs.
I stood, stepping over her to disentangle us, and headed for the open door.
The dog stepped in front of me.
Not as if she were getting off. As if she were blocking my path.
“I get off here,” I said to her, pretending talking to a dog wasn’t patently ridiculous. After one quick glance, the other passengers ignored us, because that’s how it is in cities.
I tried to step around her. The ovcharka lowered her ears and growled.
I stepped back in surprise.
Hopping on one foot, I pulled off my shoe. It was the only weapon I had. I raised it to wallop the dog.
She ducked—cringing—but didn’t move. She peered up at me and wagged her tail innocently, teeth chastely covered now. I imagined her like the wolf in the story: “Do not kill me, Prince Ivan. I will be of use to you again!”
That was when I noticed she was pregnant. A pup must have kicked or twisted inside her, because a sharp bulge showed against her side for a moment before smoothing away again.
I dropped the shoe back on the floor and stepped into it. I wasn’t going to beat a pregnant dog with my trainer.
She nosed my hand gently and wagged her tail. She looked at the door, back at me. She pushed up against my legs and, as the door slid shut and the train lurched forward, she herded me back to my seat—still vacant, and the one next to it was empty now too. Only once I sat did she hop up beside me and lay her head across my lap.
I’m not sure why I went. Perhaps I was simply too befuddled to struggle. And I was early for work, anyway.
Two stops later, she hopped down as the train was approaching the station, and nudged me with her slimy nose again.
I’d already spent the ruble. I might as well see what it had bought. I followed the dog out into the bustle of the station, up the escalator—she didn’t even pause—and out into the balmy afternoon. She checked over her shoulder occasionally to make sure I was behind her, but other than that never hesitated. I had to trot to keep up: so much for showing up to work not sweaty.
After less than a kilometer, she slowed. Her head dropped, and she placed each foot singularly, with care. I recognized the stalking posture of a wolf, and pressed myself into the shadow of a building behind her. I felt like we were spies.
There was a pocket park up ahead—a tiny island of green space surrounded by a black twisted iron rail. As we came up to it, just to the edge where leaf-shadows dappled the pavement, I realized that there were two figures on a bench across the little square of green. They were facing away, and because of the dog’s weird behavior, I had been walking softly. They didn’t hear me.
I recognized one of them immediately, and not just by the skinny jeans and the leather jacket and the guitar case leaned against the arm of the bench. The other was a woman. More than that I couldn’t see, because Ilya had pulled her into his lap and had his tongue so far down her throat he could probably tell what she’d had for breakfast yesterday.
How many of his band practices had actually involved musicians—no matter how loosely you defined the term?
I would have expected my hands to shake, my gorge to rise. I would have expected to feel some kind of denial. But instead, what I felt—what I experienced—was a kind of fatalistic acceptance. Frustration, more than anything.
How Russian of me, I remember thinking, and having to bite down on the kind of laugh that rises up when one recognizes one’s self behaving in a stereotypical fashion. The dog leaned against my leg; I buried my fingers in her greasy coat. When I looked at her, she was looking up at me.
Want to go pick a fight? I imagined her asking.
Her tail waved in small circles. She waited to see what I would do.
I stepped back into the shadows of the building, turned smartly, and set off back towards the Metro. The dog followed a few steps, then trotted off in her own direction.
I didn’t mind. Like me, she probably had to get to work.
I wound up taking a share bike after all. I was running too late to make it on the train.
On my break that night, I found a corner in the staff den and read everything I could pull up about dogs. I felt queasy and tired. I wanted to go home, already. Somehow, I made it through my shift, though I couldn’t manage cheeky and flirtatious, and so my tips were shit.
Ilya and I didn’t have our next fight immediately when I walked in the door. This was only because he was in bed asleep, and I couldn’t find enough fucks to wake him. And when we got up the next day, I was too angry to put it into words. Sure, he irritated me. That’s what partners do for each other, isn’t it? But I had thought we were a team. I had thought …
I had thought he would get his act together one of these days, I guess, and finally start to pull his own weight. I had thought I was saving him.
Finally, at the top of the Metro escalators, he had had enough of my stony silence, and pushed the issue. Went about it all wrong, too, because he stopped, tugged my elbow to pull me out of the line of traffic, scowled at me, and said, “What the fuck crawled up your ass this morning?”
It was almost three in the afternoon, but whatever. I shook his hand off my elbow, glared, and spat. “You cheated on me!”
I saw him riffling through potential answers. He thought about playing dumb, but I was too convinced. He had to know I knew something for sure. At last he settled on, “It was an accident!”
“Like she tripped and fell on your dick? Argh!” I threw my hands up. We were causing a scene and it felt wonderful.
“Petra—”
“Ilya, never mind. Never mind. You’re taking the next fucking train. And I want your shit out of my apartment when I get home.”