A Summer Storm

The smell of wet dog. The pulling into the supermarket parking lot for the hundredth time. I can't stand to be in there, I'm not hungry. The unloading of all the items onto the conveyor belt, the cashier, never friendly, I want to be friendly. Don't feel like bringing the bags in from the trunk of my car, but I have to, or the milk will sour, and the eggs, the eggs will go to shit. The decision to take a dip, in the pool. I bring the dogs. The sky is very dark; it begins to rain, lightly at first, then very heavily, and first I just submerge myself entirely into the murky blue and watch the rain pelt dumbly into the surface above me. I can see the dogs, wet, carousing frantically around the periphery of the pool. One is standing nervously, one is rolling in the grass. Can't hold my breath for too long because I smoke too much. Realizing that I won't be able to buy cigarettes much longer if I can't find a job, might have to give that up. Can't find a job. Emerge. This Sunday is Father's Day. No one is home, we get the house all wet when we run in. The smell of wet dog. I wrap myself in a towel, then each of the dogs. Overnight bag lies askew on the floor, I still haven't unpacked. The flickering of the kitchen lights. The attic lights. Again, the dumb pelting of the rain, this time on the roof, I can hear it, it's loud, we're all very wet. The brown dog, she comes up first, crawls into my lap, and she looks at me, her doe eyes that don't care what the fuck I'm doing with my life. Scratching her behind the ears, she drifts off for a bit. Mom comes home, finding us all in bed, looks sloppy and bitter, she wants to ask me the big question, I can tell, but instead, only: "It smells like wet dog in here."