Dog Park

Chapter 2

His name. I didn't ask for his g-ddamn name.
I press my face into the tiles of the shower, groaning. The warm water beats down on my shoulders, easing the near-constant ache. A muffled knocking comes from the other side of the wall. Time to get out. I finish washing up and step onto the bathmat. With a towel around my waist, I step out into the hallway, promptly tripping over Cerberus. She sits, waiting patiently for me, and, for some reason, isn't even miffed by my foot catching her on the stomach.
"Come." I say, tapping my leg. It's one of the few commands she obeys every time. She hops up and follows me into my room.
She jumps on the bed almost immediately, butt wiggling as if my dirty sheets are the best thing in the world. I throw my towel over her, effectively distracting her while I slip on a pair of shorts. The air conditioning is out again, so I don't bother with a shirt. A tearing sound leads to a tussle, with me struggling to extricate the shredded towel from Cerberus' mouth.
She happily chews on a ripped-off strip of terrycloth while I throw the towel in the laundry hamper. Luckily, only the edge ripped off.
"Mom's not gonna like that." I spin around and see a little girl in my doorway. She's short, at least compared to me, with frizzy black hair and freckles. I wish I could say that she is a tiny assassin sent to kill me, but that would be a lie. She's my sister, purportedly.
"I'll fix it before she notices. Where's Dad?"
"Hong Kong, I think." Huh. I thought he left tomorrow. "He said to tell you that he doesn't have cell service tonight but he'll call in the morning." I flop back on my bed, narrowly avoiding Cerberus, who's managed to burrow under my blanket.
"Have you eaten dinner?"
"Nah. The rice is yuck and you weren't home." Her way of asking me to make dinner.
"But Hannahhhh, I'm tiiired." I'm not actually that tired, and I love cooking for the two of us. Mom doesn't get home until 11:30, but she'll appreciate the leftovers. "Fine, but you have to fix the AC again."
Hannah is the only person alive who can fix it, at least according to our landlord.
I walk out to the kitchen, feet sticking to the fake wood tile. Cerberus follows me joyfully, cloth scrap forgotten. I hear Hannah banging on something metal with something else. The neighbors had complained at first, until they realized what a genius she is with machines. This building has the best-running garbage-disposals and blenders on the block.
I twist the gas knob and give it a good smack. The flame roars to life, blue and hot. I set the pan over the stove. This pan is my skillet, my saucepan, and every other type as far as I'm concerned. Except for a stockpot hidden deep in a cupboard, it's the only one we have. I pour in some olive oil and let it heat while I root around in the fridge. I come back out with a bottle of minced garlic, half an onion, and a carton of mushrooms. Soon the entire apartment smells like frying goodness and the mushrooms hiss and crackle in the oil. I shut off the stove as soon as possible, leaving the mushrooms to finish cooking unaided as I go to check on Hannah. She is crouched on the top shelf of the old vacuum closet. Her face is streaked with dust and sweat, but with a curse she should not know and a clatter of metal, the machine starts to hum. She hops down from the closet as cool air starts to wisp out towards us.
"Go wash up; food's ready when you are." She slips into the bathroom, exuding confidence and satisfaction the whole way. Her body language is so easy to read sometimes that I have to laugh.
We eat in silence. She has a book and I have my thoughts of blonde hair and twitching fingers. I hope he comes back tomorrow.