The Difference Between Getting and Needing

o n e

there ain't much that's dumber
than pinning your hopes
on a change in a n o t h e r . . .

〰️〰️〰️

"Oh, fuck, not again!"

The roaring profanity, followed by the trotting of paws and a heap of weight landing on the end of my bed, was what woke me up.

I wasn't surprised. If anything, I'd be surprised if something along those lines wasn't my wake-up call. It had become my alarm clock over the last few months, maybe even the last year or two. That feature on my phone was completely useless when my apartment was a goddamn circus.

I flipped over onto my right side, facing the middle of the bed that was occupied by cold, wrinkled sheets instead of a body. The only soul in sight was my dog curled up by my feet, his black and white dotted fur pairing adorably with my baby pink bedding. A sleepy smile spread across my lips at his daily I-didn't-do-it face, brown eyes glassy and the very tip of his tail wagging as if to apologize.

"I know, Ziggy. Good morning to you, too," I murmured as I reached my hand out to scratch his head.

Our moment of peace was too soon shattered, like clockwork.

"Bayla!"

I let out a groan, the noise between audible and under my breath just so Gus could barely hear me from where he was in the kitchen. "What?" I dramatically whined, glaring at our pop art style poster on the wall as if that were his face.

When he didn't respond, I knew he wanted me to come out. I knew our routine all too well – I knew him all too well.

Six years, seven months, and however many days got you used to a lot.

With every ounce of energy I had in me at just after six o'clock in the morning, I literally rolled out of bed and dragged my feet the entire way, to see Gus waiting for me at the island in the middle of our kitchen. Dropping myself at one of three stools, I propped my chin up with my hands, resting my elbows on the polished white countertop. His eyes were already on me when I looked over at him standing on the other side.

Sapphire blue. Cold, hard, just like the stone. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"What?" I asked again, forcing exasperation into the word.

His manicured, stubble-coated jaw clenched and he jerked his head towards the door. "Your goddamn dog chewed up my shoes again," he uttered as if it were the end of the world.

I hummed in thought, pushing back in my stool to see a pair of Nike sneakers strewn by the door, one upside down and the other with the tongue hanging out. I wanted to laugh, but I knew that wouldn't make the situation any better. Instead I sighed, albeit overdone and drawn out.

"Just be glad they weren't your Saint Laurent's," I pointed out optimistically, knowing what a dent those boots put into his bank account and how much he loved them. Probably more than any material item in his life.

"Doesn't mean I don't care about those sneakers," he sneered with a subtle eye-roll.

"And this is my problem, why? You're the one that always leaves your shoes out when you know he chews them when he's hungry," I brought up for probably the thousandth time over the two years that we've had Ziggy. "Did you give him his breakfast?"

I didn't get an answer. Gus grumbled something to himself and spun around to search through the cabinet that we kept all the dog supplies in. At the distinct click that couldn't be mistaken for anything else but the opening of Ziggy's food container, he came galloping out of our bedroom and stopped on a dime by Gus' feet.