Gone With a Handsomer Man by Michael Lee West Page A

distance I heard a blues band playing on a rooftop bar. Coop stopped beside an old red truck. A gigantic hairy beast stood in the back.
    “What’s that ?” I said.
    “My dog. Don’t worry. He’s a gentle giant.”
    I took a breath, remembering dogs could sense fear. The animal was the size of a miniature donkey, with gangly legs and a long tail. As I moved forward, the dog’s ears swiveled through the rippled, taffy-colored hair, tracking my movements. The gigantic mouth opened, and a pink tongue slid between curved incisors.
    “This is T-Bone,” Coop said. At the sound of his name, the dog spun in tight circles, making the truck sway, then he stood on his hind legs and waved his paws.
    “T-Bone loves to ride,” Coop said. “Don’t you, boy? I hate leaving him at home.”
    “How old is he?”
    “Don’t know. I found him two years ago. He was half dead. Starved. A broken leg. He’s fine now. He weighs nearly 140 pounds, but he could stand to gain a few.” Coop patted the dog’s head, and the pink tongue shot out, the size of a brisket, narrowly missing Coop’s cheek.
    “Cut that out, T-Bone.” Coop laughed.
    The dog woofed and spun again.
    “He’s got chutzpah,” I said.
    “That’s for sure.” Coop grinned. “Come on, let me drive you home.”
    Why not? I thought. I wasn’t taking a ride from a stranger, just an old boyfriend. I glanced at his profile. His nose was just as I remembered, long and straight, as if drawn with a ruler. “Okay,” I said.
    “Where do you live, sweetheart?”
    “East Bay.” I looked away so he couldn’t see me smile. The way he’d said “sweetheart” put me in mind of Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon.
    We climbed into the truck. The light from the dashboard reflected into his face as he cranked the engine. Music started playing. Radiohead was singing “All I Need.”
    I turned around and looked out the rear window at T-Bone. “Does that tail ever stop wagging?” I asked.
    “Never.” He adjusted the mirror and I saw T-Bone’s reflection.
    Coop turned onto East Bay Street. A group of tourists in shorts and sandals strolled toward the waterfront. A little farther down, a carriage moved toward the Battery. Coop tapped the brake. The truck slowed just as the music started to build in a rush of piano, xylophone, drum beats and cymbals.
    At the end of the street, a dark car pulled away from the curb. I jumped a little—Bing drove a black Mercedes—but when the car passed under the streetlight, it was navy blue.
    Not Bing. What a relief. A Winnebago pulled into the slot, and a plume of dark smoke drifted from its tailpipe.
    “I live right there.” I pointed to the pink house. If I invited him in for coffee cake, would he think I was offering more than dessert? Even in the old days, we’d never crossed the line.
    Coop squinted out the window. “You’re selling it?”
    “What?”
    “There’s a sign out front.”
    I turned. The ornate sign was back. It jutted up from a narrow patch of grass, lashed to the palm tree by a thick metal chain.
    “You can stop here.” I cracked open the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
    “May I call you sometime?” he asked. “For dinner or drinks or something? Or you call me. My number’s real easy to remember: SUE-THEM. The answering service picks up 24-7.”
    “Sure.” I started to climb out of the truck, and he touched my arm. I turned. From the radio, the music reached a crescendo. We reached for each other at the same time, our movements building like music, the different elements converging—lips, tongues, hands.
    The song ended abruptly, and I came back to my senses. I pulled away, my hands knotted against his shirt. I’d kissed someone I used to love. But he hadn’t loved me. Why would it be different now?
    “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” I wrenched away and climbed out of the truck. I ran toward the sidewalk, past the sign. A note was taped to the wrought iron door. Check Out Time—24 Hours,