Lunch

The next day at lunch I noticed a shadow against my newspaper and saw Jim walk by and sit down across from me.

"Hey."
"Hey, Jim. How's it going?"
"Vanessa told me about the Shoot. You've gotta tell me. Did you bang Jen?"
"I don't talk about those things."
"No, really, because I hear she sucked you off. It that true?"
"Jim, I'm not going to talk about it."
"Man, you're a dog. Alright. See ya."

He got up and walked off.

I was a dog? The girls could make up these stories all they wanted and people would believe them. My word was somehow completely irrelevant. What difference did it make what I said? Who would believe a guy who claimed to refuse a blow job anyway? No one. Telling the truth was completely hopeless.

Short bits of poetry was my treatment.

The dog pants
It sits
It does not move
It does not speak
It does not roll over
It watches its master
It heels
It sits
And waits
It listens to its master
Yet, always, it pants
Why?
It is what dogs do