“Which bar?” Greta asked.
“Farmacy,” he said.
Greta nodded. “Right.”
“Hope to see you,” he said over his shoulder.
Now Big Swiss was circling back toward Greta. Tiptoeing behind her was what looked like a wolf-coyote hybrid. A coy-wolf. A woyote. Sleek, silver, the most beautiful dog Greta had ever seen. She suspected Big Swiss had chosen the dog not for his personality but because he was as stunning as she was.
“Are you two together?” Big Swiss murmured, nodding at GILF.
Greta shook her head. GILF was arguing with someone on the phone. Her dog had not only pink and lavender in its fur, Greta noticed now, but several additional pastels. Dusty peach, honeydew, baby blue.
“Looks like the Easter Bunny paid them a visit,” Big Swiss said.
“And jizzed all over their hair.”
First thought, best thought, Sabine often said. This wasn’t true of Greta.
“Did you just say what I think you said?” Big Swiss asked.
“Yeah,” Greta said, and tried to smile.
A wedge of Canadian geese passed overhead, honking.
“Your dog reminds me of the Big Bad Wolf,” Greta said. “Is he mean?”
“Not really. He has Akita in him,” Big Swiss said. “And a little chow.” She took the dog’s big head in her pale hands and pried open his mouth, which he didn’t seem to mind. “His gums are purple and his tongue has black spots,” Big Swiss said, looking directly at Greta.
More arresting were his teeth, which were blindingly white and needle sharp.
“Are those implants?” Greta asked.
Big Swiss let go of the dog’s face. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“You grew up on a farm. In Switzerland?”
“Yeah. Are you Swiss?”
“Me? No.” Greta swallowed. “I’m from out west.”
Stop acting psychic, asshole. Are you trying to lose your job?
“What’s your name?” Big Swiss asked.
Fuck, what’s my name? Rebecca.
“Regreta,” Greta said. “I mean Rebecca.”
“Flavia,” Big Swiss said, and held out her hand.
Greta had always figured the F stood for Famke, Faye, Freyja. What the hell was Flavia? It sounded like the name of a condiment. A dry, savory seasoning you added to broth. An acquired taste, perhaps. Addictive, probably bad for you. Her middle name began with E. Her last name, W. Could Greta really ask for her full name? They’d “just met,” but she wanted to be certain Flavia was in fact Big Swiss.
“I’ve never met anyone named Flavia,” Greta said. “What’s your middle name, if you don’t mind—”
“Eloise,” Big Swiss said quickly.
Eloise seemed like a name for someone with warm hands. Big Swiss’s were ice-cold. She wore her wedding ring, a no-frills platinum band, on the wrong finger.
“How did you know I’m Swiss?”
“Just a guess,” Greta said. “You seem very European. But classy, not trashy. Your boots were handmade in Germany, right? I’ve wanted a pair for years.”
“You didn’t think I was German?”
“Please,” Greta said, as if she knew hundreds of Germans personally.
Big Swiss looked toward the trees. Pi?on was on the other side of the meadow, nose buried in a hole, ass in the air. He lifted his head suddenly and looked in their direction. Greta watched him notice Silas. Now he raced toward them at top speed.
“Here comes trouble,” Greta said nervously.
Silas was submissive, Greta hoped. He seemed calm, but as Pi?on got closer, Silas let out a high-pitched shriek.
“My dog doesn’t bark,” Big Swiss said. “He screams.”
The scream startled Pi?on, who slowed to a trot. He approached Silas cautiously and examined him from every angle.
“He thinks he’s looking in the mirror,” said Greta. “He has body dysmorphia.”
Pi?on clutched Silas’s front leg and humped it vigorously. Silas permitted this while gazing at the horizon like a gentleman. Pi?on closed his eyes, rested his head against Silas’s narrow shoulder, and continued thrusting.
“Well,” Big Swiss said.
“He’s a leg man,” Greta explained.
“Most dogs are afraid of Silas.”
“I wish Pi?on had a little more fear,” Greta said. “Thanks, by the way, for saving his life. What made you pick up a pit bull like a wheelbarrow? I never would’ve thought of that.”
“It was automatic,” Big Swiss said. “Your dog was being strangled. A switch gets flipped in me whenever I see someone being overpowered like that. Especially if they’re defenseless, you know?”
Oh, I know, honey. I know every goddamn detail.
“Do you work with dogs?” Greta asked. “Like, professionally?”
Big Swiss shook her head. “Not dogs. Pussies.”
“Cats?”
“I’m a gynecologist,” Big Swiss said, and smiled.
Big Swiss scanned Greta’s face without blinking.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Big Swiss said. “Most people don’t believe me.”
“That’s because they’re used to hearing something like, ‘I farm sugar beets, and then I make fancy beet juice with my feet, and then I bottle the juice and sell it at the farmer’s market for forty dollars an ounce,’？” Greta said. “But I figured you were someone with a serious job.”
“Well, I’m just finishing my residency.”
A minute or so of silence passed.
“You must get this a lot,” Greta finally said, “but would you mind taking a quick look at this thing on my labia?”
First thought, worst thought, maybe keep your fucking mouth shut?
“It’s most likely a skin tag,” Big Swiss said after a moment. “They’re very common. If it bothers you, or interferes with your sex life, I can freeze it off with liquid nitrogen, after I make certain it’s not genital warts.”
“I was kidding,” Greta said.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a transcriber. A glorified typist, basically. It’s not a real job. I work from home and don’t get out much.”
“What do you transcribe?”
“Interviews,” Greta said. “For journalists. From the city.”
She wondered if Big Swiss had gotten her hands on a Magic Wand, the huge, unwieldy vibrator Om recommended to anyone with a vulva, young or old. It was like recommending a cudgel, and, in Greta’s opinion, not all clits wanted to be beaten to death. Although, Greta’s did. She’d been jackhammering away for over a decade, but only after many years of manual labor. It seemed like the wrong tool entirely for Big Swiss, who acted all hard but probably craved subtlety and nuance.
GILF was off the phone and looked lost. She eyed Silas warily and picked up her dog.
“Did my grandson leave?” GILF asked.
“A few minutes ago,” Big Swiss said.
“Damn,” GILF said, and hurried to her car.
Her grandson. Her real grandson.
“Her grandson invited us for a drink this weekend,” Greta said, and immediately regretted it. “I mean—he offered to buy us a drink at his bar.”