I used to fantasize about her dogs.

That probably came out wrong.

What I mean is that

I would walk in the park on clear October mornings

and imagine them chasing each other ahead of us

as we crunched arm in arm through the leaves

wearing cute autumn clothes.

In spring I passed a stand of cherry trees in full riot

when a sudden gust filled the air

with a victory parade’s worth of pink confetti

and they appeared from nowhere

darting and dashing and snapping at the petals like maniacs

while we watched from our picnic blanket and I played with her hair.

Mowing the lawn late one afternoon

my playlist included “Lover You Should’ve Come Over”

and my head cast them in a movie scene:

the two of us slow dancing at the end of a dock

against a backdrop of midsummer gloaming

staring into each other’s eyes

the frame of our closeup bounding both universe and time

until the spell is broken by the dogs

leaping into the lake beside us

soaking us with their splashing

our laughter lingering through the fade out.

I even dreamed of standing freezing at the door

in a sweater and underwear every morning of a long winter

while they did their business in the back yard

knowing I would soon be rescued by the softness and the warmth

of her bed and her arms and her lips.

In my heart they belonged to me just as much as she did.