The Dachshund 

“You came out of those old yellow flats next to the police station, yeah?” 

I can see the train pulling to a stop just ahead of me. “I just want your number, your name,” he says, panting, and I think about how bold he is to try this at nine o’clock in the morning. On a busy street. Not far from a police station, as he’d just pointed out. Maybe he works at the police station. 

“If you don’t want to tell me I can just go back to your building and ask around,” he says, and I pretend I can’t hear him. There’s only one road between me and the train platform now. I take a risk he isn’t willing to–darting across in front of oncoming traffic–and only look back once through the swarming morning crowd to see him hesitating in front of a turnstile. I hope he decides I’m not worth the fare. 

There’s not much to do at the office. There’s rarely much to do. My mother asked me recently to explain my occupation and I’d just said paperwork. She’d laughed but I was serious. I have no idea where the paperwork goes once I hand it off to my supervisor, nor what it’s designed to achieve. I just know it’s been dealt with, the way they taught me to deal with it during my orientation. But why consider it? Everyone is benevolent towards me here.

At lunch I flick through the dating app my cousin tells me I’m supposed to be on now. 

“You have to know what you’re looking for,” she’d said, flashing her engagement ring. I’d fawned over it when I was supposed to but I’d felt absolutely nothing when the rock hit the light. Did she mean I was supposed to know what sort of person I wanted to find? Or what I wanted from whatever person was willing to spend time in my company? 

Leopold is twenty-nine and works in the shoe store where I’d bought my sensible flats. George lives in Kentish Town and studies medicine. Good for him, but those hours… I match with Louis who is an analyst at undisclosed. He’s my age and has a friendly looking dog. He wastes no time at all and before I know it we’ve arranged to meet for drinks somewhere halfway between our places.

I’m sipping something fruity up at the bar when I’m tapped on the shoulder. But he isn’t the slight, stubbled analyst from the app. He’s the guy who followed me from my place this morning. He smiles,

“I’m Louis,” he says. 

“No, you’re not,” I say, and begin packing up my belongings. I look to the bartender for help but he’s picking little petals off a flower, sprinkling them into a drink for the only other person in the bar aside from us － a little bald man buried in his book. 

“I am. I made up that profile hoping you’d be on there. The photos weren’t me but everything else is true. Don’t you think that means something? Please give me a chance.”

I hesitate. If what I am looking for is a man then perhaps some disturbing behaviour, like this morning’s street chase, is sort of unavoidable. My mother told me my father once broke five other mens’ noses because they’d hit on her in the smoking area of a nightclub. And they were still living together. She didn’t complain about her life. 

Maybe Louis, if that was his real name, had gotten that angst out of his system. And he was right that there could be some significance in my choosing his information over Leopold’s or George’s. I sit back on the stool, though I keep my coat on. 

“Okay,” I say, and he smiles so brightly I find myself unable to resist returning the look.

Soon enough, we’d been on three pleasant dates. I felt totally fine when we were together but whenever I went home I’d wonder how I felt about him. There was a total void inside me, right in the spot where I felt that knowledge should be. My browser history was filled with questions. When to go on second date? When to cancel third date? How should I feel fourth date? How to watch election results?

When I turn up to the fourth date I feel silly about all the anxiety. Louis is handsome. And polite, now that the chasing is out of his system. And though he doesn’t have the friendly dog from the pictures, he does have a brand new dachshund. He bought it because he felt bad about that misrepresentation. 

When we have sex, he tries to choke me twice. The first time, it takes me a moment to realise what’s happening. He doesn’t say anything, just starts squeezing. I let it go for a little while. Perhaps this is just the sort of thing I’d need to practice before I could enjoy it. That had been the case with the trombone. But eventually I pull against his hands because I can’t breathe and it hurts. Though, I suppose that is the point. We repeat the dance before he finishes and I begin to wonder if he isn’t more interested in killing me than having me. I think about my cousin again while he’s in the bathroom. She’d bragged about talking her fiance into choking her.

I resolve myself to move past it. Everything had been just fine otherwise. But in the office bathroom the next day I’m irritated to see that my throat is bruising. An older lady, Susan, comes out of the cubicle and regards my neck with a gimlet eye. 

“Are you seeing Louis?” She asks,

“Yes,” I say, and stare at her, letting her know I expect some explanation.

“Oh, I’m married to him,” she says. 

“Oh, okay.” 

Was I looking for a married man? And perhaps more importantly, was I looking for a married man whose wife was so unmoved by my existence? The existence of a mistress? I sigh. That word made it sound like the role came with responsibilities. 

“Does the dachshund bother you?” I ask, as we both wash our hands.

“We have to get him fixed next week,” she says. I frown. That isn’t really a straight answer. 

“I can take him,” I say, “If that’s a nuisance?”

“Alright, yes, thank you. I’ll bring him in on Tuesday.” She dries her hands,

“Lovely,” I dry my hands,

“Wonderful.”

“I think I’d like to go home,” I say when he’s next on top of me. I’d begun to think that maybe this wasn’t for me. I couldn’t afford a dachshund right now, not to mention the hassle it would be to negotiate with my landlord about the pet rental fee. 

“You want to go home?” He asks, but doesn’t move. 

“Yes?” I say, his uncertainty so solemn it infects me, “I want to go home?”
“You want to go home?” He asks, even more confused this time. I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know what I could say to net a different response.

“Do you want to have sex?” He asks, and I say yes, okay. I suspect that if I say yes he’ll be less confused about me wanting to go home the next time I suggest it. 

I write Susan a break up letter that evening and when I give it to her at work the next day, she cries. 

Dear Susan, I write, I think you’re a wonderful human being. An Instagram account told me to couch bad relationship news between positive, affirming statements. The joy you provide the office with on a daily basis makes me think you’ll be a wonderful pet owner. I actually wasn’t convinced of this at all but my attachment to the dachshund had waned to almost nothing. I am ending this relationship because it’s what’s best for me and my journey right now. The Instagram account recommended that sentence. I’ll always care for you, in a way. Positive and potentially true. 

I get an email from HR asking to speak to me after the morning meeting. 

“We hear there’s been an incident,” they say,

“With Susan?”

“Yes, with Susan. Her husband has made a complaint.”

“Right,” I say, “But her husband doesn’t work here. Did Susan make a complaint?”

“Susan did not make a complaint. Susan did say…” He checks his computer,

“‘I love her, I love her, why did she do this.’ But when I asked if that was a complaint she said no.”

“So…”

“So the complaint was lodged by her husband, who owns the company.”

“He owns the company?”

“He owns the company.”

“Right, I see.”“He did, however, suggest you could come to an arrangement, your bad behaviour being taken into account.”

“My bad behaviour.”

“Yes, exactly. He said he can arrange for you to be transferred to another company on one condition.”

“Oh, anything,” I say, and immediately regret the hasty compliance.

“He wants you to take the dachshund.”

Of course he does. Nothing could be worse. But I agree. I take an empty cardboard box from the HR man and go to my desk only to remember I don’t own anything there. It’s all Louis’.