Custody

We share a dog. I think that's the only reason we still talk.

His name is Biscuit. She picked him from a shelter, and I pretended I wasn't a dog person. Within a week, I was buying him sweaters.

Tessa and I split up in September. We had a very mature conversation about it. We made a schedule. I get Biscuit on weekends. She gets him on weekdays. We meet halfway at the park near the train station, exchanging a lead and a bag of treats like we're doing a tiny, sad drug deal.

She always smiles politely. I always say, "He's been eating well."

We've done this for four months.

Last Saturday, she was early. Sitting on the bench with her coat pulled tight. Biscuit ran straight to me, tail whipping, and I crouched down, burying my face in his fur.

"He misses you during the week," she said. "He stares at the door."

"He does that at mine too," I said.

A pause. Cold air. A pigeon.

She stood up and handed me the lead. Her fingers brushed mine, just for a second.

"I stare at it too," she said, very quietly.

Then she walked away before I could reply.

I looked down at Biscuit. He looked up at me, head tilted, like he knew exactly what had happened.

I'm not sure whose custody this is.

The dog's the only one of us who's honest about missing someone.