Princess

It's 10:00 at night, and I am walking home from the NYU gym after a grueling pool speed workout. Second Avenue is dead, as usual, at this time of night. I make the right-hand turn onto 23rd at the light by the fruit market and head eastward from 3rd. At the next light, bang a left across from the old, run-down supermarket and make my way three block north to 26th. Sporting a grey Dickinson College sweatshirt and baggy, red training pants, I shuffle onward regretting the extra peanut butter and chocolate chip cookie I had after stuffing my face at dinner.

Tall, dark, and slender, wearing thin, ash-colored sweatpants and a green T-shirt he strides gracefully in front of me. I see a little, white, fluffy object tucked under his left arm. A teddy bear? A doll? As I approach, pacing along side him, I see that he is gently holding a little dog. This beautiful man with a lap dog! Without meaning to, I start to giggle. He looks at me and smiles.
"Sorry," I say.
"It's OK."
"That's the cutest thing I've ever seen," I coo.
"Thank you," he responds, as he laughs.

His voice sings an African tune, but from where I do not know. The dog shifts from under his arm and looks at me. She, I presume, is wearing a little, red doggy sweater. A doggy sweater? This is crazy! I laugh again.

"What's her name," I ask.
"Princess."
"That's adorable! Is she yours or your girlfriends?"
"Mine."
"I've never seen a man with such a cute dog," I say.

Bad Alex! Stop those naughty thoughts. Actually, it was an honest question, at the time; but then I thought, how stereotypical. What if he is gay? I shouldn't assume that men don't like little dogs, too.

"She usually walks along next to me," he protests. "But she's tired from before. Watch. She follows me"

He places the little, white fluff on the sidewalk and slowly backs away. "Come on!" He coaxes. Princess doesn't move. She looks up at her owner, confused, and sits down in her place. "Come on!" He says again, but she just sniffs the air. I begin to worry. We have gotten rather far up the sidewalk.

"She won't run into the road, right?"
"No, she's good."
"Come on!" He says for the last time.

The little dog skips over to us, wagging her tail. "Good girl," he says, chuckling, and wedges her back under the crook of his arm.

We walk along side-by-side in silence, as we reach 25th Street. Two young kids come around the corner and run right into the man with the dog. Looking up they screech: "Oh, doggy!" I see the white fluff shake. She's scared. The man looks not amysed, but the kids start jumping up and down trying to touch her. Princess snuggles closer to her father's side. "Ok kids," he warns. "Leave her alone." I laugh at the scene, but regret it when I see the man's face. Luckily, two women appeared and called the kids away.

"People need to teach their children good manners," he says disappointedly.
"I know," I respond. Not knowing what to say. Lame.
"Unbelievable," he adds, shaking his head.

We reach the corner of 26th Street. I stop and turn to my sidewalk companion before parting.

"I'm going this way."
"It was nice talking with you," he offers genuinely.
"Have a nice night with Princess," I contribute, for lack of anything better to say.
"What's your name?" He begs, extending the hand not supporting Princess.
"Alex. Yours?"
"Saleem. Nice to have met you, Alex." He gives me a friendly smile.
"Thanks. Same to you." I smile back.
"Good night," we both say as we go our separate ways.

Saleem, or is it Salim? I ponder this on my way across the street and to the dorm. Passing the housing projects situated on my street, I think of what I just experienced: A late night stroll up 2nd Avenue with his little dog, Princess. Saleem. Random.