Sweet Pea

Danielle Kenwood
2 min readJan 25, 2016

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He finds it crumpled on the floor, underneath the worn gray couch. He’d follow her scent of sweet pea anywhere. A paw reaches for the fabric, uncut nails dragging it out of the dust and darkness. Gently, gently, he carries it between his teeth, its long sleeves lightly brushing the wooden floor with every soft clack of his footsteps.

Her man sits on the edge of the dining room chair, shoulders hunched, looking very small. He stares down at a photograph that seems too delicate in his rough hands. He smells like pine needles and salt. The dog grazes his leg as he passes, leaving traces of wiry fur on his faded blue jeans, but Man’s dark eyes are fixed on an old smile. Maybe he would’ve yelled at him then, but he doesn’t now.

The shirt is placed carefully on top of his pillow, and he jumps in bed after it, curling up happily next to his prize. He buries his snout contentedly within its white folds and breathes in: it’s sweet pea, no doubt about it. Months old, but his trusty nose never lies. It smells the same as his growing pile of treasures nearby. A scene that he thinks about every day plays again: she steps through the doorway, he runs to greet her, she rubs him behind the ears just right and smiles, he woofs — welcome home, and by the way, I have your sock. His tail thumps twice on the pillow.

After she gets back, she’ll have to win his latest find from him by force, just as she always does. That’s how the game goes.

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