At The Touch of Love

I met a woman on the platform of the L train who had just finished crying every tear she once possessed. She had a friend to her right and a dog to her left, one of them looking at me with big brown eyes that felt like a portal to a world full of goodness and a planet full of promise. In the midst of my trance, the woman says that I can pet her dog without me even asking. I thought she read my mind, but it turns out my big brown eyes were looking back at her dog with a smidge too much curiosity, and an overbearing amount of longing. 

“His name is Plato,” she sniffs.

“Hi Plato,” I say, patting his skull and scratching his thick ears.

As we boarded the train, she told me that she was crying because, “Plato is getting adopted today, and I’m bringing him to the new owners myself. I am just a foster.”

I simply responded, “Don’t show up.” 

She has to keep the dog. Something in my gut knew that this black lab needed to be with this woman. Yes, she was crying due to her sadness, but I could tell she was also crying out of fear. Fear of abandonment, fear of change. He got onto the woman’s lap like a toddler after a long day at the beach, and snuggled into her left shoulder.

“That is your dog, if you’ve shed that many tears about him already,” I emphasize.

She laughs in agreement and in remorse.

She says “I should drop off the face of the Earth, so Plato and I could be together and no one will bother us.”

And I say, “You have to go rogue. Please, if not for yourself, do it for him.” 

I leave her be, tell her to take care and give her all of my well wishes, knowing that she and I will never see Plato again after today.