Dinah Cox Just Saying Hello

Bonnie and Ray were retired, though Ray took a side job selling small appliances at Sears, and Bonnie, though she'd worked at the public library for thirty years and was pretty well sick of the place, continued to work Saturday mornings doing story hour for the kids. Ray was at Sears one day when Bonnie decided to get in some exercise and take her bicycle for a spin out in the neighborhood, the "gayborhood," they called it these days, since all the same-sexers had moved in. They were fine people, really fine people, except for Davey and Jonas who had no children but greyhounds instead. Jonas, the younger one--she thought he was some kind of graduate student--was tolerable, friendly in a generic sort of way, but Davey, who worked in finance and made sure everyone knew it, was a creep. And they allowed their greyhounds to shit in everyone's front yard, and no one, not even Ray, who was ordinarily both bold and diplomatic, had the guts to confront Jonas and especially not Davey about the dinosaur-sized turds. They greyhounds were named Rebel and Saint, which Bonnie thought was stupid. Her own dogs, before they died, had been named Peaches and Harley, not perfect names, to be sure, but better than average. On her bicycle now, she saw Davey practicing his golf swing in his front yard. The big decision: to wave or not to wave. At the last minute, she thought of Ray working overtime at Sears so as to have extra money for their winter trip to Florida, and something about the vision of the white sands before her made her decide to go ahead and wave, but she immediately regretted it when Davey, though he was looking right at her, did not wave back.

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