sand between your toes.
There is distance between us.
You holler, “Oscar cannot walk in the sand.”
“No?”
“No. His feet are slipping between the small stones. They’re wet.”
“The stones or the feet?”
“Both.”
“You might want to pick him up.”
“And a bigger wave might knock him over.”
“The perils of the beach, I guess. Pick him up then.”
“Even I’m slipping! For God’s sake, what’s with all this slime on the stones?”
“No clue. But we’d better move faster. Slime permitting.”
*
And as I turn back, I see you holding Oscar, him shivering, burying his head in your thick scarf, likely to fall asleep as soon as he’s settled, you swinging him gently as you’re trying to find your balance, gingerly stepping from one stone to the next, and I’m thinking: if this wasn’t an abstraction, a distinct intention, sand between your toes, a tentatively shared obsession, the one thing you’ll never forgo for reasons that are deeply entrenched but lately have become a little vague — if it wasn’t for all that?
*
If it wasn’t a dog, would you really care?
