Dreams? Of course he had dreams. A little house out on the countryside, the wood siding painted with a yellow buttercream and the shutters a soft green. A little car parked in the drive and a large yard for the dogs. The light hits the attic window in such a way that the whole place seems to sparkle. A white picket fence, just along the front edge of the property, and a little red mailbox sit out front. The lawn is green, save for the garden planted along the edge of the house; a rainbow of flowers. The city feels far away. The air feels cleaner. The world feels like it could be okay.

He wakes up before her and goes to the bathroom to clean up. He oils his hinges and wipes himself down. He runs a diagnostic on his essential services while he wipes his eyes down with a micro fiber cloth. He spends some time playing with his hair and styles it into something soft and gentle. He smiles at himself in the mirror, unbothered by the subtle lines of his compartments and seams. He gets dressed: a crisp pair of black slacks, a starched white shirt. He puts on a pair of black suspenders and hangs an untied bowtie around his neck. The diagnostic tells him he’s running fine. He gives himself one last satisfied look in the mirror and heads into the kitchen.

The whole kitchen gleams like new. The dish drying rack is still full from last night, the only clue the room gets used. He grabs the apron hanging on the wall and puts it on over his clothes. The dogs wander into the kitchen, metal paws clicking against the tile floor. He smiles at them and pours a few bowls of kibble by the window. They sniff, take a few bites, then sit and wait. He heads to the fridge and pulls out everything he needs: eggs, bacon, cheese, butter, spinach. One of the dogs speaks up. He heads back to the fridge and pulls out a sausage. The group wags their tails; the ones who can. He sets everything on the counters, puts a pan on the stove, and gets to work.

The dogs get bacon and sausage while he works on the eggs. She likes hers with plenty of cheese. He starts up a pot of instant oatmeal and throws some bread in the toaster. He plates her eggs, then starts on another round. The dogs head off, satisfied for now. His work wraps up, he’s plated everything but the oatmeal. He’s adding the maple syrup when she comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist. He smiles, but his eyes remain focused on the food. She coos sweet good mornings around affectionate nicknames. His voice is soft when he responds, a smile always on his face. She lets him go and takes a step back as he puts the oatmeal in a bowl and turns around. Her face scrunches and she takes the bowtie.

“This won’t do,” she says.

They sit at the table together. She doesn’t eat, but she picks at the food and compliments his work. He smiles more. He eats, they talk, she laughs. The dogs return. She pushes her plate to the table edge and the dogs let the biggest of them have the plate. He remarks he could do without the spinach. They all laugh.

She brings him a new bowtie while he cleans. It’s more colorful, more daring. She ties it on for him and kisses his cheek again. He thanks her, then gently pokes her nose with a soapy glove. She squeals, the dogs bark, and then laughs.
“You’ll be late,” he says. She waves him off and heads into the bathroom. He brings up his to-do list application and goes over the day’s events: bathe the dogs, wash the car, clean the living room, call Buck back. The old rotary phone in the living room begins to ring. He takes off his gloves and wipes powdery hands on his apron. One of the dogs casts him a concerned look.

He answers the phone. He knows who it is; it could only be one person. The man on the telephone mentions a job; a run in the city.
“It shouldn’t take long,” says the man. “Should be an easy one if my intel’s right.”
He nods and tells him he’ll look into it. He hangs up the phone and looks at the dogs, all sitting nearby with their eyes trained on the phone, heads cocked sideways. He smiles at them.

A car pulls up to the house; sleek, black, and shiny. The motor hums warm against the gentle spring day. The horn honks; E flat, twice.

She steps out of the bathroom, fastening an earring. He’s putting the apron away. He wishes her a good day and kisses her cheek. She smiles, her eyes sad, cups his cheek with her hand, and kisses his forehead. The car out front honks again. She bustles off out the front door. The car is off as soon as she’s inside.

He sighs and checks his list again, adding the new assignment. He has a bit of time. He takes the dogs outside. They bound through the yard, panting and wagging their tails. He throws them a toy; that should keep them occupied. He grabs a bucket of soapy water and starts on the car. It’s not terrible; they don’t drive it much, but it keeps up the façade of it all. It’s champagne; her choice. He didn’t like the color and it had needed a lot of work, but it was theirs. He looks up and back at the shed behind the house. His ride is in there. He keeps it safe and out of reach. He checks the time; he still has plenty, but he wants to case the meeting place out first. He puts the supplies away and brings the dogs inside.
“Stay,” he says. They listen until he leaves through the back door again. They watch, paws up on the windowsill, as he opens the shed door.

The big dog whines.

The scooter is purple and spotted in color. The soft black seat is worn from use, but still good. He puts on his helmet and starts it up. He doesn’t lock the house; the dogs will handle anything wrong. He drives out of the shed and down to the road. The city waits on the horizon; tall and black and tired. He smiles.