It was late in the afternoon, and the heat had pressed the city flat. I wandered in just to waste time, let the air cool me down. It wasn’t the kind of place you went looking for anything. Just a long, dim thrift store with stained carpet and too much silence. I was broke, hungry in a vague way, and trying not to go home.
The painting was near the back, leaning against some kind of support beam, though I’m not sure who was holding up who. It was large. Heavy. Black velvet. The kind that drank in the light and kept it down. Two dogs, side by side. Their bodies filled the frame like they were meant to be there. There was something in their eyes—something in the way they sat, poised and still that made you wonder if they’d been waiting a long time. Still, they looked at you. Or maybe through you. Or maybe they just looked like they wanted a piece of your sandwich. Nothing about it asked to be admired. But I stood there a while.
It was awful, and it needed me.
At home, it hung on the wall like it belonged to it. Heavy. Declaring its space.
I regretted it. Of course I did. It made the room smaller. Made the food taste worse.
The dogs stared forward into the room like they were trying to make sense of it, of where they’d ended up. I tried to ignore it. Sat down, opened a book, closed it again. Ate dinner facing the window. But every now and then, I’d glance up, and they’d still be there. Still watching. Still waiting for something to change.
That night I dreamed about them. The Rottweiler spoke Spanish or maybe it was Portuguese. The other dog was its interpreter. I woke up and took it down. Leaned it against the wall. Sat on the couch and stared at the blank space like it was better.
It wasn’t.
I put it back up. The dogs didn’t say a word. They just looked at me.
The actual painting