She’s chasing the dog because he stole her purse, the little shit.

She’d woken up and looked outside and saw the sun and thought, screw it, screw work, screw therapy, why not put on a sun dress and walk down to the bakery where they have fudge cake and cute Mexican boys who don’t speak English very well but always smile at her? So she’d done that, put on the dress, and stepped outside, and the sun had been warm and she’d been in a cocoon of happiness and potential and then she’d stepped off the porch and the clouds and raindrops and the voice of Carl saying where you going dressed liked that people can see your legs, Mabel. Good Christians don’t use the middle finger, certainly don’t lift up one high and point at the sky where Jesus himself might be sitting. No offense, Jesus, so instead of flipping the bird she’d decided to weather the weather; it was a short walk to the bakery anyway.

Maybe she’d get soaked to the skin and it would look sort of sexy.

She hadn’t it; it didn’t; the rain had stopped before it had even started although the clouds had been persistent and there was a little wind. But then she’d gotten to the corner where she was supposed to turn and she was just thinking about the skinny bitch, who wasn’t really all that much of a bitch, not really, not her fault she’s attracted a man like Carl, not like she’d gone out of her way to find Mabel, find her husband, seduce him with her jeans and her sports bras and her nose piercing, seriously, who the hell has a nose piercing in their 40s? No, Carl had chased her, and left Mabel for her, and gotten cancer and finally wised up and kicked his fat belly and his sunken chest to the curb, and one day out of audacious curiosity Mabel had gone to where the woman worked and looked at her and she actually seemed nice enough and if there was any Jesus, I mean justice, it would have been Mabel who made friends with the skinny bitch and Carl who’d gotten the cancer.

Thinking about all of this when a cloud opened up and a ray of light stabbed Mabel right in the eye. She blinked, and there was a rainbow. And out of nowhere that loud rushing noise she’d been ignoring was all of sudden a truck racing down the road, within inches of her, and in the window an old Mexican guy with a lecherous smile, who made a kissing face at her. The shock of the truck made her drop her purse, the kissing face made her blush, the wind whipping at her dress made her feel like a little girl, and the dog that was running past her snatched up her purse and kept running.

And Mabel was running too before she even knew it. Running after the little dog, white with orange spots, orange blotches, blotches like the one’s on Mabel’s cheeks, like the one on her knees, like the one’s on the skinny bitches cancer-bebalded head. Show some decency, girl, show some self-respect, wear a scarf, that’s what cancer patients are supposed to do. Honestly, what kind of person would attract a man like Carl in the first place? Plenty of skinny bitches out there, plenty of nose piercings, why this one?

The dog darts around a corner and Mabel’s right behind him. He’s not running that fast, burdened by her purse, but he’s not even going as fast as he can, and Mabel’s doing that sort of bent-over run, the one with both hands in front and palms up like she’s going to catch him. As if. 197 pounds, divorced, sun dress, windy, clouds, occasional drop of rain, skipped work, wants fudge cake, doesn’t get much alimony from Carl but spends half of it on therapy and the other half on the collection plate.

Mabel gets close, swipes at the little shits tail, but he does a thing with his ass where he’s going two directions at the same time and then he’s out of her reach again and running across the road. Mabel’s half-way across the road before she realizes it and she comes to a stop just in case there’s more fast-moving trucks with smiling Mexicans. Alas, no. The road’s empty. The dog stops too. Looks at her from the other side of the road, purse in his mouth, panting. She leaps towards him and he’s off again. Damn it! She half giggles.

Around another corner, across a yard, Mabel would never think to trespass but it’s her purse and she’s chasing a skinny little white dog with orange spots, there has to be an allowance for that. Her shoes are gone. The grass is wet, cold, stings her feet. Now he’s trotting down a sidewalk and her feet are filthy. She’s never been in this neighborhood before, lived here ever since she got married and she’s never been here, less than even a mile away. Because they can’t have run miles yet, there’s no way, there’s no way Mabel could run even a mile, could she?

Mabel’s out of breath, slowing down. The dog’s nowhere to be seen. She leans up against a wall, panting. Her purse. Her white one, the small one, just her checkbook and her driver’s license and some tissues and a lipstick. Call the bank, get a new license, tissues are cheap, the lipstick is tawdry anyway. Stupid dog. Stupid sunshine, stupid clouds. Maybe her therapist was right, two years of therapy, maybe he was onto something. She’d been 197 pounds in high school, captain of the debate team, took them to State, almost won, maybe she’s been sublimating all that fat self-hate, just like he said. College, economics major, 4.0 thank you very much, 197 pounds, who’s going to ask her to Frat parties, of course she got good grades. And then Carl, called her his pudgy princess, married her, 197 pounds on her wedding day. Stupid sunshine, stupid fudge cake.

She’s hadn’t changed in thirty-six years. Not one bit. Oh she’d gotten her diploma and her degree and her marriage certificate and her divorce papers, but she hadn’t really changed. Carl went from nice guy to asshole, the skinny bitch had gone from healthy to cancer, even the day had gone from sunny to cloudy. But she was still the same old Mabel. She went to church every Sunday, and asked Jesus to forgive her for being glad Carl was getting his just desserts, and all the old women in the pews looking at her sitting there alone, like she had done something wrong. Maybe she had. Maybe she should have gotten skinny for Carl. But she hadn’t, hadn’t changed a bit, stayed the same old Mabel she’d been since she was sixteen and lost her virginity to Rodrigo. And now here she is, she’s lost and tired and wet and cold. And hungry. She’d just chased a dog for 15 minutes. How many calories was that? How much fudge cake is she going to have to eat to get back to her usual 197 pounds?

Mabel looks down the sidewalk. At the end, the dog sitting there, big smile on his face, purse in his mouth. She walks towards him. He’s just sitting there. She can see his tail, wagging. He drops her purse. Lies down on the sidewalk. She walks up to him, reaches for her purse. The dog shoves his head into her hand. She has to scratch him behind his ears. He wags his tail even harder.

Mabel decides: fuck her therapist. She’s glad she weighs 197 pounds. She’s glad Carl and their marriage and his betrayal and their divorce didn’t change her. She’s glad the skinny bitch got cancer. Fuck church too. She’d been happy before she met Carl, happy after they got married, sad for a bit when he’d left her, but she was happy again and there was nothing fucking wrong with that.

A smell, a wonderful smell, a deep rich lemony smell. A man is standing behind the dog. He’s holding a paper sack. The amazing smells is coming from that bag. Mabel looks up at the man. He smiles at her. “I see you’ve met my dog.”

“Oh, is he yours?” Mable stands up. “The little shit stole my purse!” She giggles.

The man blushes. “Ah Jesus, I’m sorry. He does that. Here, let me give you a lemon square. I just bought them.”

Before she can say no, he’s handed her the square. Despite herself, she takes a bite.

It’s the most amazing thing she’s ever eaten.

Mouth full, dress clinging to her in spots, Mabel says “What did you say his name is?”

The man takes a bite of a lemon square too. His eyes fairly twinkle, and she can tell, he’s loving the lemon square too. “Cymbal” he says.

Mabel laughs. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”