February 1st

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You awoke to the sound of your alarm clock blaring. You groaned, rolling over in the bed and slapping the stupid thing until it stopped. You rubbed your eyes, it was another Monday, and you couldn't say you were thrilled about the start of another week. Not that your life was unbearable or anything. It just happened to be extremely monotonous.

Every weekday you woke up at 7:30 to the sound of that god awful alarm clock. You could never linger long in bed either, as you cat, Callie was always demanding to be fed breakfast. So that was always the first thing you did. Followed by making yourself a cup of coffee and cleaning yourself up as it brewed. By the time it was done you usually poured yourself a bowl of cereal and checked your calendar. You usually didn't have anything going on. Today was one of those days.

Today was February 1st, 1988. It was the start of a new month, so that had to be worth something. As far as you knew though, that was about it.

After you finished your coffee and cereal, you drove to your job. You worked at a pet store as a dog groomer and cashier. The store was small but cozy. It had a shopping area in the front. It didn't have a huge selection, but it had enough to be useful when you needed something. Behind the counter, there was the grooming area. It just had one table and bath for the dogs, but it was one of your favorite places to be. The only people that worked there were just you and your best friend Laura. Your boss was an older man who couldn't come around to the store much anymore. It wasn't much, but you loved it there.

That morning, none of the dogs had come in yet, so you sat behind the counter. You read a magazine and chatted away with your best friend while she stocked the shelves. Per usual, her weekend was more exciting than yours. She had gone out with some new guy and she liked him enough to consider going on a second date. You didn't date much. It was always casual, never usually going far. You had needs of course, but dating had honestly just proven to be more of a chore to be worth it.

Your conversation was interrupted soon enough though, as you soon heard the little bell on the door jingle, and sat up to see a collie off-leash running straight for you. You sighed, not excited about the prospect of having to deal with another crazy dog, and have to turn away a person since they didn't have an appointment. You knew that there weren't any collies coming in today.

The dog was quite well behaved though, after he ran past the counter you grabbed his collar and he sat down right at your feet. He was really cute too, and you started scratching him behind his ears as you checked for the name on his collar. Before you could read it though, you heard a deep voice and quickly looked up to see who it was coming from.

"That's Sam. He started looking a little scruffy and it's a bitch to cut his nails so I thought I'd bring him in before work." The voice said. You observed it to be coming from a man. He looked to be in his mid thirties, he had a long, unruly mullet and striking blue eyes. His collared shirt was wrinkled. It looked like he could use some new jeans and boots, but there was just something about him. Maybe it was the confident energy he emitted, something you lacked. Regardless, he was profoundly handsome and you started to notice you might be staring at him. Your face immediately flushed and you started to stammer.

"Uh, so.. I-" You could feel yourself getting redder and you just wanted to kick yourself. "Uh, ok. So do you want us to wash him and cut his nails or do you want to give him a bit of a trim too?" You asked, starting to ramble. You hoped he hadn't noticed you staring or blushing, but from the look of your friend desperately trying to hold in her laughter, you had a feeling you weren't very discreet.

The man ran his hand through his hair before responding, "Go ahead and give him a trim, I need one too." He said with a bit of a chuckle and smiled. You felt your stomach jump at the sight of his smile and quickly started to ring him up on the register, refusing to look back up at him so you wouldn't embarrass yourself any more.

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