It was one of those sticky days.  Too much sun and smog. Everywhere on the street, people’s foreheads were shiny.  They were sticking to their shirts and groaning.  An abrasive bodily funk hung over the entire city.

All the cars had their windows rolled up.  The vents blew rancid cold air into their faces.  Still, men sweat heavily in their crotches and women between their breasts.  No one smiled at one another and all the street lights were red.

A woman named Barbara Thatch walked – no – she stomped down the street.  She had short, heavy feet that looked like they belonged on another species.  The fat part of her triceps rubbed against her body, warming her sides to a bright red.   She wore oversized sunglasses that made her nose look sharp.  People moved away and turned their shoulders as she plodded by.

In one hand, she held a cellphone a few inches from her mouth.  Maybe she was talking to one of her girlfriends, or maybe she had been put on hold.  In her other hand, the leash was taunt.  Her dog, Baker, sniffed and snarled at everyone’s ankles.  He was too big to be a small dog and too small to be a big dog.  This made him irritable and as pretentious as a dog can be.  Barbara had tried to put a shirt on him, but it was too small.  It bunched up right behind Baker’s front legs.

Barbara didn’t know what breed her dog was.  When people asked, she lied to them with the first name that popped into her head.  In the three years that she’d had the dog, it had bitten two of her neighbors’ kids.  No serious harm was done, only deep burgundy teeth marks and a strong warning.  When the parents confronted Barbara, she pretended to cry until they were satisfied with her suffering.

Barbara walked her dog like this every day.  On hotter days, like this particular one, she walked harder against the pavement.  She crossed and walked on the south side of the street to be in the shade of the apartment buildings.  Her apartment was well-furnished and smelled like vanilla perfume.  She only took Baker out once a day, usually in the afternoon.  If he was quick to piss or shit, she’d immediately go back up to her room.  If she was on the phone, or if Baker refused, the walks lasted much longer.  She never picked up after her dog.  Whenever Baker finally did shit, Barbara contorted her face with repulsion and looked away.  If the dog struggled with constipation, she jerked his leash with impatient anger.

With the sun refracting into those extravagant sunglasses, and distracted by the phone, Barbara steered the dog around a few blocks and began to head back to her apartment.  She was good and sweaty by this time.  Her neck was flush.  The cars on the street continued on.  The drivers looked either depressed or sick to their stomachs from the sticky heat.

When Barbara turned to cross back to the north side of the street, the sun was at the perfect angle to blind her.  She was still busy in the conversation.  On speaker, she forced everyone to overhear her squawking voice.  She jerked the leash and forced Baker between two parked cars.  As she looked over the top of one car, into oncoming traffic, the leash jerked from her hand and there was a terrible grinding thud.

A car screeched to a stop and the driver got out with his hands on his head.  Baker was dead.  His body was twisted and the little shirt looked more like a rubber band around a crinkled newspaper.

It took a few seconds for the blood come crawling out.  Barbara took a few steps backwards to keep her shoes clean.  The driver of the car said something.  Then Barbara said something back.  Maybe she didn’t say anything at all.

Someone cleaned Baker off the street while Barbara smoked a cigarette.  The sun was finally going down and the sticky heat was beginning to ease up.