We lazily rolled down our street, returning from somewhere unimportant. The sky was blue, the grass green, the world rotating. I blinked once, or maybe twice. The bitter air conditioning stung my face; I nearly stiffened into some thoughtless and romantic ice sculpture -- one which melts under a ruthless June sun, later mopped with dirty lemon rags. “Stop,” I screeched. A dog, which was once white, excitedly meandered my neighbor’s yard; at our car’s halt, his smug face scrunched so that his eyes vanished. I don’t think he had a mailing address, or regard for anything except the sunlight warming his back. My feet hit pavement as the dog bolted.
My eyes strained as he led me into an electric green woods -- everything buzzed and swayed as if someone flicked time’s hour hand into a dizzying spin. “Come here sweet, sweet baby,” I half screamed. Through tears I choked on my own charm; no greasy treat or squeaky toy would ever intrigue this dog. Despite my exceeding height and slight desperation, I considered myself appealing to strays -- but this dog did not want me. The blotchy white fur faded, lost amongst thickening pines.
Days later, my breath returned when I quit searching. This dog, the epitome of my perpetual daydream, did not want me. I do not know how long I chased it, any of it. I do not know why, either. Sometimes desire is silly and forgets to reason. I do not want that which does not want me any more, because it hurts. It left me panting and alone in the woods. So I run, without collar or leash, into an expanding whiteness -- one to write, to paint, to create all my own; here is where the dog can find me.