ALL I'VE GOT

It was cool and overcast and I was standing outside of a Kinko’s when a man came up behind me, grabbed my shoulder, and spun me around. “I love her, okay. You can’t have her. You just can’t,” he said to me. I didn’t know who he was or the woman he was referring to. His hands were packed in fists and trembling. “She’s all I’ve got in this world,” he said. His entire body was trembling now, as if preparing to take-off—or detonate. “Surely, she can’t be all you have,” I said. “There has to be something else.” We got a cup of coffee at a nearby diner, and I went through the receipts and bank statements in his wallet. He wasn’t joking; he had hardly a dime to his name. No property. No car. His personal appearance was middling at best. His personality, about the same. “What about a cat?” I asked. “Do you have a cat?” “No cat,” he said. “A dog?” I said. “Well, yes, I have a dog—Clementine,” he said. “See? You do have something after all,” I said. “I guess I do,” he said. “That wasn’t very fair to your dog, was it?” I said. “No, I suppose it wasn’t,” he said. I told him about my dog, Treacletart, only recently deceased. We pulled up pictures of our mutts on our cell phones. Clem napped in a crescent shape beside the radiator. After some goading, he agreed to let me meet his dog. But no petting, he said. She doesn’t like that.

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