The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and fear. My cat trembled in her carrier.
Across from me sat a woman with a golden retriever I would have known anywhere. Five years ago, I had to surrender him when I lost my job and my apartment.
She noticed me staring. I apologized, explained. She smiled and said he was her best friend now.
A small bag of candied almonds in tulle sat on the seat beside her—a wedding favor from a wedding we both must have attended. I remembered that day.
She asked if I wanted to say hello. I crouched down and he sniffed my hand, then wagged his tail. He remembered me.
This is the last week of my lease. I'm moving into a place with a yard. I asked if she ever needed a dog sitter.
She said yes. I'll see him again next week.