Angela Cummings


Originally published in Esquire Magazine’s 2012 Short Short Fiction contest - December 2012

The dog’s eyes indicated surrender, a succinct pleading for relief. There should be no delay – anymore. Two weeks went by before she could pick up the dog bed. Then, she moved out.

“No man will ever look at you like that,” her bachelor roommate had said, when the dog was young, and she was younger.

But this beautiful man does (married man; married to another woman.)

Lay down. Stay. Come. We are never trained to love well enough (alone).