The Invitation

The grooming parlor where Vig takes the Maltese puppy Vicki brought home—six weeks to the day after he discovered her affair—is walking distance from their downtown Los Angeles apartment. But at nearly five months old, Freyda has yet to feel LA’s sidewalks under her paws. She travels to her vet appointments, play dates, and Vicki’s boozy brunches in a front-facing backpack that seems to polarize the humans she meets. Some exclaim at its cuteness, gushing over Freyda and asking permission to “say hi to the baby.” Others look away quickly, seemingly embarrassed. Vig, whose earliest experience of dogs was the pack of strays that roamed Parco Saraceno in his youth, hates the backpack. He’d rather carry Freyda in his arms (he agrees with Vicki that the streets of DTLA are too filthy for her to walk on). But today, he has no choice. Today, he needs his hands free to carry the invitation.

Vig and Freyda earn a few double takes as they cross town. The immaculate, snow-white bundle is striking against his leathery neck and forearms. On especially hot days like this, Vig’s already florid face deepens to a purplish carmine, giving him the look of a root vegetable left roasting too long. His clothing has been carefully chosen to emphasize this mediterranean coloring, which he secretly believes makes him exotically handsome. Garment-dyed polo, light wash jeans, and the same sneakers his daughter’s boyfriend wears. “My style is Malibu boomer,” he likes to joke, flashing veneers as white as Freyda. At fifty-two, his vanity is like an increasingly bored wingman, yawning and tapping his watch pointedly. Vig, however, is not ready to leave that dance just yet.

He walks with one hand lightly resting on Freyda and the other holding the invitation carefully away from his overheated body. It’s a simple flyer Vicki printed from her computer: You’re Invited! Please join us for our (First annual??) Tarts and Vicars Penthouse Party. Dinner and drinks will be provided, duh, so come hungry and horny. Costumes encouraged demanded! Clip art of a Playboy bunny in silhouette is pasted clumsily besides a screenshot of Hugh Grant in Sirens. Vicki ordered her outfit the night they decided on the theme. It’s the first party they’ve planned since Vicki’s affair ended—the first since months of nightly fighting have tapered off into a wary truce, brokered unwittingly by Freyda. Love for the puppy pours out of Vig so abundantly that her little body cannot contain all of it; the excess soaks slowly into the porous fabric of their relationship.

Still, the humiliation rankles. Vig knows that Vicki is lying about not having told any of their friends. He dreads their eyes falling pityingly on him as they walk in the door. So he is on his way to rearrange the board a little bit. If he is successful, the distraction will be so complete that no pitying eyes will even notice him. If he is not, the mere attempt will communicate all that he needs to.

Vig straightens his shoulders, clears his throat, and steps into the pet supply shop that houses the grooming parlor. Freyda, immediately recognizing her surroundings, wiggles and whimpers to be let free. He sets her down on the polished concrete floor and the click-click-click! of her tiny nails is the only sound in the otherwise quiet shop. Realizing she must be in the back, Vig lingers out front, letting the air conditioning dry his sweaty forehead. He watches as Freyda happily explores, taking her scent inventory of other recent canine visitors. Vig suddenly has a terrible thought. He realizes he forgot to stop on the way over to let Freyda relieve herself. She almost certainly has to pee—or worse.

“Freyda,” he says in a low voice, striding toward her. “Freyda, come girl.” She ignores him, sniffing intensely. Vig freezes. He knows that sniff. He hesitates, afraid to risk lifting the puppy mid-stream and having her urinate on him. Before he can make any decision, Freyda makes one for them both. She squats, blinking innocently at Vig as a soundless trickle issues from beneath her.

“Fuck!” Flustered, Vig grabs for the puppy with both hands. The invitation, still in his right hand, falls partially into the pool of urine, wetting the bottom left corner. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Holding both at arms’ length, he carries Freyda and the wet paper back outside. A gust of hot wind lifts the invitation, grazing his wrist with dog piss. Cursing, he sets Freyda directly on the ground. The puppy sniffs the verboten environment excitedly while Vig collects himself.

His pocket vibrates: Vicki, probably. He doesn’t answer, busy positioning Freyda in the backpack once more. Another vibration: Vicki texting.

Babe where are you?

He waits a beat.

Groomers

Wasn’t she just there?

He looks at the message. Here it is. The long awaited moment. He moves his piece.

I’m inviting Billie to the party.

A very long pause. So long that Vig has time to consider whether or not to go back in and extend his invitation verbally, or to just go home. He sighs and rocks back and forth gently, a habit he’s picked up since carrying Freyda. He turns to look inside the shop’s glass front. From his vantage point, he can see all the way back to the small room where the dirty, smelly, and shaggy dogs of downtown Los Angeles are cleansed of their sins and made respectable again.

Then, he sees her. She’s hosing down a golden retriever in the huge stainless steel basin. Her back is to him, but her form is familiar. The smooth, strong line of her calves. The ponytail that swings as she works. His phone finally vibrates again.

The girl that clips Freyda’s nails?

Yes

A short pause.

Isn’t she like 25?

Vig doesn’t answer. He pictures Vicki on her couch, glass of wine in hand. The day’s makeup already washed clean from her cosmetically taut face. He stares at the words on his phone, at the number on the screen, as if it holds all the secrets to the universe. As if it can explain to him why his girlfriend cheated on him, why decided to stay with her, or why he is here right now.

Freyda yips, jolting him out of his reverie. Love for the tiny being holstered against his heart floods through him. She is no doubt hot, thirsty, and confused by their lack of movement. He taps out his reply to Vicki.

Talk when we get home. On my way now.

Along the way, he tosses the crumpled up invitation into a trash bin.