Flute thin and rigid, Laura stood in the foyer, one arm extended toward David, the dog’s leash swinging gently from her hand. She was wearing those pink jeans that always made David think of flamingos. Holding the leash out to him, her face an imperious mask, she looked both regal and ridiculous.
David knew he should walk the dog — Dash was his, after all — but they’d stayed late at the party, and he was tired. “I walked him before we left,” he said, “while I was waiting for you to get ready.” He sat down and flipped on the television. “I’ll get up early and take him out.”
