A ragged man, a Chihuahua, and a woman with a lavender latte

Once out of the storm and into the posh pet store, the man—he can be earthy, profane—says to his Chihuahua, Fuck, you need a raincoat. In the store's rarefied air, the woman gasps. Still, the Chihuahua she decides she likes. You're sweet, she says. What's your name? The man, My dog had one when I had a home and a wife. The woman, Oh. Then into her latte, OMG.  She rummages in a 'I Love Afghan Hounds' handbag and pulls out $20. Tosses it. For your troubles, wee one. I'd name you Bijou. In a puddle of water, the drippy dog briefly thanks her. Whine. Says the man, You can call her Linda. It was my wife's name. Staring, Oh. The store manager comes. He pants, circles the woman's Birkenstocks, licks her hand like the Chihuahua never would. Her buying power is her firepower. She shouts,The man swore. The dog isn't cute. It's wet and hardly thanked me. He's calling it his wife. I'll never shop here again. Rising over the man and the Chihuahua, the woman's words cloudburst and drench them again.