Jen Mierisch

Every afternoon, she jogs through the park next to my apartment. She’s athletic, gorgeous, blonde, sweet enough to wave at toddlers.

All I have that might catch her attention is Wasabi, the fluffy mutt I adopted from the pound. But even a schlub can shoot his shot.

Three days straight, I walk Wasabi down the path and try to make eye contact. Blondie jogs past me without a glance.

“You don’t want her.” The voice comes from behind a bush. “She’s a cat person.”

It’s that weird girl. She wears black even in summer, sunglasses day and night. Her little gray dog looks like a hairball.

Thursday, I pretend to trip and fall. Blondie never breaks stride. Goth Girl walks over and hands me a Band-Aid. “For your bruised ego.” Jesus. What’s her deal?

Friday, I go out wearing the zebra costume I found at Goodwill. If I can make Blondie smile…

She frowns like I’m a fugitive zoo animal and sprints away. I sigh, push the hood back, wipe sweat from my brow.

“Nice outfit.” Goth Girl lifts her sunglasses atop her head. Her hazel eyes are striking in the setting sun. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Wasabi.” Our dogs dance the circular butt-sniff tango. When we untangle the leashes, my arm brushes hers.

“Mine’s name is Pesto.”

“Heh. Saucy.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Her smile is big and warm.

I look down at my zebra stripes. Maybe weird is more my speed. “Want to take a walk?”