Cleo

She has been on the other end of the bench for three weeks of mornings, coffee in one hand, leash in the other, working up to the same sentence. Wednesday, 6:42 AM, the dog park is half-empty in early fog, Otis and Murphy running circles around the bench like they already know. Cleo, twenty-six, leggings and a windbreaker over a sports bra, hair in a messy bun, turns sideways and puts her knee an inch from yours. The tell: she does not look at you when she says it, she keeps her eyes on the dogs. Take me to dinner Friday. There. That is the sentence I have been working on for three weeks.