Linda’s German shepherd, Brutus, had no sense of social boundaries. This was a fact she had accepted long ago, along with the reality that her knees would never be what they were at thirty and that men her age were either married, broken, or desperately trying to be twenty-five again. At fifty-five, she made her living walking dogs in the wealthy subdivision at the edge of town, where the houses were too big and the lawns were too green and everyone pretended they weren’t lonely behind their automatic garage doors.
Mike’s house was the last on her route. He was sixty, a veterinarian who had retired early after his wife left him for a cruise ship magician—a detail Linda found both tragic and hilarious. He was tall, gray-haired, with the kind of broad shoulders that came from lifting animals rather than weights. And Brutus loved him. Or rather, Brutus loved Mike’s crotch.
Every single afternoon, the moment Mike opened his front door, Brutus would bury his nose in Mike’s groin and inhale like he was reading a novel.
“I’m sorry,” Linda said for the hundredth time. “He’s socially inept.”
“It’s fine,” Mike said, laughing and pushing the dog’s head away gently. “I take it as a compliment. Dogs can smell pheromones, you know. Maybe he likes my soap.”
“Maybe he thinks you’re in heat,” Linda said, and then immediately regretted it.
But Mike didn’t look offended. He looked interested.
“Is that a professional assessment?”
“Just an observation.”
It became their routine. Every day at four-thirty, Brutus would assault Mike’s dignity, and Linda would apologize, and they would talk for five minutes that slowly stretched into ten, then fifteen. She learned that he cooked terrible pasta, that he missed having someone to argue with about politics, that he slept with the television on because silence felt too much like a verdict. He learned that she had been married for twenty-two years to a man who drank, that she had raised two daughters alone, that she hadn’t been touched with any real intention since 2014.
One Tuesday in November, it rained so hard that the sidewalk disappeared beneath an inch of water. Linda and Brutus were soaked by the time they reached Mike’s porch. Mike opened the door and immediately pulled her inside.
“You’re freezing,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering. Take your coat off. I’ll make coffee.”
She did. And then, because her jeans were also soaked, she took off her boots and socks and rolled her pants to the knee. Mike’s kitchen was warm and smelled like cinnamon. Brutus lay down in front of the radiator and fell immediately asleep.
They sat at the table with their hands wrapped around mismatched mugs. The rain battered the windows. Linda felt her hair drying in strange directions and didn’t care.
“Can I ask you something?” Mike said.
“Sure.”
“Why does Brutus always go for that spot? Seriously. As a vet, I’m curious if you’ve noticed anything.”
Linda stirred her coffee. “Dogs can smell arousal. Not just sexual arousal—stress, excitement, attraction. They smell the chemicals we leak when we’re interested in someone.”
“So what you’re saying is…”
“I’m saying Brutus thinks you smell like someone who wants something.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged, like the air before lightning. Mike set his mug down and leaned across the table. His hand found her wrist, his thumb brushing the pulse point.
“And what do you think?” he asked.
Linda looked at him—really looked—and felt the same thing she had felt at twenty, but sharper now, more dangerous because she knew exactly what she was doing and exactly what she stood to lose.
“I think,” she said, “that the dog has better instincts than most people.”
Mike stood up. She stood up. They met in the middle of the kitchen, and his mouth was warm and tasted like cinnamon coffee, and his hands were large and certain as they moved down her back and over her hips. When he lifted her onto the counter, she didn’t protest. She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him closer.
Brutus lifted his head, sniffed the air once, and went back to sleep.
Later, as they lay on Mike’s couch with a blanket that smelled like cedar and dog hair, Linda traced the scar on Mike’s shoulder from a particularly aggressive cat.
“You know what the research says,” Mike murmured into her hair.
“About what?”
“About why dogs sniff people’s private parts. It’s not random. They can detect hormonal changes, health issues, emotional states. When a dog sniffs you there, it means you’re broadcasting something true about yourself.”
Linda smiled against his chest. “So when Brutus sniffs you, he’s reading your biography.”
“Exactly. And apparently my biography says I’m attracted to dog walkers with smart mouths.”
She laughed, and he pulled her tighter, and outside the rain continued to fall, washing everything clean.
