Move It

Angel

When I return home from work, I walk Genie, have a shower, and climb into bed. The air-conditioning is running, but the space still feels warm. Genie’s body heat doesn’t help, as she insists on sleeping right up against my side and I don’t have the heart to push her away. I’ve been working such long hours lately, she’s spending way too much time home alone. I feel guilty, but some reasons I settled on her breed, aside from her adorable face, were because I knew she wouldn’t require a lot of exercise, and she’s content being alone.

That won’t be the case tomorrow, though. I’ve got my first day off after working six days straight, and I intend on taking Genie to visit my sister, Dina. Our parents thought giving us virtuous names would make us virtuous people, so I became Angel and she’s named after the angel of learning and knowledge. Dina always has been the good kid, but I took a lot of trial and error. I hope if my parents could see me now, they would be proud of me, at least for my work ethic. Sure, I didn’t land the big successful job as a nurse that they’d always hoped for—blood and other bodily fluids are not my jam… ew… not my thing—but I’m still doing okay for myself.

Dina is three years younger than me and is working on her Masters in Library Sciences; it was news to me that being a librarian is a science. Aside from that, she spends most of her time with her nose in books, ignoring the fact there’s a world outside her fourth-floor condo.

I lie in bed thinking about what life used to be like when we were kids—before we were forced to accept the fact humans are mortal and our world came crumbling down around us—and slowly, thoughts of my past are replaced by ones of the handsome patron I served earlier today. His angular jaw, accented by his neatly trimmed facial hair, and rounded masculine nose make him the picture of perfection.

The fact he asked me to have dinner threw me off. Once I returned inside, I felt as if he was trying to pay me for my time, and I wasn’t okay with that, so my decision to turn him down was the right one.

I split the tip amongst my co-workers since, like Hannah said, we’re a team, and it didn’t feel right to hoard a customer’s generosity. I was fine with splitting it, but it stung a little to dish over eighty bucks to the kitchen staff who can’t fry an egg, and Alex just for seating the man in my section. She probably saw him walk in wearing his well-tailored, expensive shirt and tie, hoped he’d be stuck up or difficult, and I’d end up losing my job. She’s petty. So it’s possible my intentions were less altruistic when dishing out equal portions of the thousand dollars the man left. Not that I expect us to become friends, but it would be nice if I didn’t have to worry about her vindictive streak. I still refuse to admit pointing out a spelling error was that offensive, though.

At the end of the day, I was left with around ninety-six dollars from the one thousand he left, but that’s still excessive. If he comes back again while I’m working, I’ll figure out a way to even the playing field. It may be the first time in history waitstaff will tip a customer, but I’m fine with being a trailblazer. I don’t like owing someone.

My mind is reeling, replaying our conversation, each glance or smile in my direction, his mannerisms and tone of voice. I snuggle into Genie, hoping for a reprieve, and eventually doze off to sleep.

Thursday morning, it’s another scorcher outside, and since I wanted to take Genie with me to my sister’s, I’m regretting my decision to delay our departure. We should have left when the temperature was lower and the humidity hadn’t yet reached its peak. Humidity plus curly hair is a look I’m not too fond of. For that reason, I wet my hair and pull it back into a sleek ponytail—as sleek as tight curls can get—throw on a coral tank top, khaki shorts, and a pair of comfortable sandals. I pack up some water for both Genie and me, and text my sister that we’ll be there within the hour.

A quick check of the weather app on my phone says the temperature is twenty-eight degrees now, but a high of thirty-four is expected and the humidity index is high. Stupid Angel. I hope Genie will be okay walking the distance to Dina’s house.

It’s 11:48am by the time we exit the elevator and walk out of the lobby. The hot air hits me like it does each time I walk into the restaurant kitchen. The thickness of the air feels like trying to breathe through a wet towel. We’ll take things slow, and I’ll monitor Genie’s paws to make sure she doesn’t burn herself. I’m not sure what I’ll do if that happens because she’s fifty pounds of muscle and not cooperative being hauled around. Not to mention, I’d look like I was participating in an atlas stone carry. Someone should invent dog sandals.

The walk is about three kilometres, which isn’t terribly far on a normal day, but the heat will have us relegated to the shade as much as possible. With a plan in mind for which streets we’ll take to maximize shade availability while the sun is directly overhead, we venture off.

With one kilometre down and two to go, Genie is struggling. Her pace is slow; her breathing is heavy—heavier than normal. I decide to stop for a moment so she can rest and get some water. We move out of the way of foot traffic by tucking into a shaded alley beside a nail salon. Genie lies on the ground with her legs stretched out behind her, exposing her belly to the cooler pavement. I’m kicking myself for dragging her out during the midst of a heatwave. She’s an October baby. This is her first summer, and she’s not cut out for long walks or extreme heat.

We’ll stay in the alleyway as long as she needs to recover. My sister sends a message to ask me to stop and pick something up for her, but I remind her I have a dog with me, so I can’t go into any stores. She concedes and agrees to run out and get the items herself. She’ll meet us at her place when we get there. If we get there.

Twenty minutes later, Genie pops up, poised to continue on our journey. She drank all of her water and some of mine, so I hope we’ll have enough to survive the arduous trek.

Our next half-kilometre is slow but steady, sticking to the shade whenever possible and me hauling Genie across any sunny stretches to keep her paws from getting hot. But by the second half of our journey, she refuses to move any farther.

A distinguishing feature of any bully breed is their hard-headed nature. You can’t convince a bully to do something they don’t want to do. Genie has quit, and despite my pleas, she’s not changing her mind. I need a wagon.

My work is a few doors down, but I doubt Mr. Harrington would be pleased if I walked in with my dog. What would I even do if we went there? Ask for a table and take a seat like that was our intended target? I wouldn’t even feed Genie the food there.

I crouch down on the ground next to Genie and beg her to walk the rest of the way. She looks at me with an expression that says, “Not happening.” I groan in frustration—not with my dog, but with myself for bringing her out today—and squat down beside her. “What are we going to do now, huh? We’re closer to Dina’s than we are to home, but I can’t carry you that far.”

As I pour the last of our water into the collapsible bowl for Genie, I consider our options. I hate feeling stuck, and beyond that, I hate when I make epic mistakes. This situation encompasses both things.

Other people stroll by, some with umbrellas for shade, others in full business suits sweating profusely.

I mutter to Genie, “I’d hate to be that guy.”

While I’m crouched in the mouth of an alleyway talking to my dog, another suited man stops in front of us. “Angel?”