On the doorstep were red roses, a good dozen of them tied inside a cellophane cone with small hearts on it.
Michael had thought he'd heard a knock, which was why he had opened the door. But now that he looked about, he couldn't see anything except a small white van disappearing around the corner, and he looked back at the roses. His heart skipped a few beats as he wondered who might have sent them, wildly fantasizing it might have been the gorgeous guy in accounts who he'd shared a joke with occasionally, or that hunk at the bar the other night he had talked to. But he realized the guy in accounts was married and that the hunk in the bar had gone home with a hot university student who seemed to get all the good looking ones—and not surprisingly, Michael thought as he sighed and picked the flowers up. He was still young—but not that young, or very good looking, or that confident and up front. He looked for a card and found it, and his heart jumped again, wondering—it said, "See you at 10 am."
Which had him suddenly quivering with excitement. The dog-training club! He had been going there for about nine months now and had joined because he had got a black poodle, for company, but not by choice. His sister, Amelia, had left her husband and gone off to find herself, in India, and Patrick, the poodle, had been in danger of going to doggy heaven. She had told Michael it was him or death row, and he had not been able to refuse to have Patrick.
Patrick arrived as an uncontrollable wrecking crew. Well, he had been nine months earlier. Since then the obedience training at the club had certainly improved Patrick's behavior, making him almost easy to live with. And they were sociable outings also, and Michael was very much enjoying them himself too. Now he wondered whom the flowers might be from. Was it the instructor, a photographer in real life, with the Australian Cattle Dog? Now there was a pretty hunky guy. Or maybe the surly but not bad-looking shaved-headed bodybuilder with the Doberman? They had bumped into each other in the men's one day, and George, that was his name, had looked at Michael's dick as he pissed and indicated the stalls with a flick of his head. Michael had to admit he had been tempted. But he knew how embarrassed he would have felt if they had been caught and knew that Patrick wanted training more than he wanted to blow George. And public toilets had never been his thing anyway. And no, he couldn't see George sending anyone flowers. He had to admit he had no idea who it could be, but there was a thrill to the mystery, and a bigger thrill to know he would soon discover who the roses were from.
Michael hurriedly got Patrick ready and threw their gear in the car and headed off to the training grounds, arriving early for once. When he got out of the car, he was nervously looking about to see who was there and who might be looking his way, but he couldn't see anything unusual. Heading over to the table he always sat at in the breaks, he saw Polly and her owner, Malcolm, unpacking there already. Another pair who had arrived earlier than usual.
Michael and Patrick always sat with Malcolm and Polly, and Malcolm always joked that Patrick and Polly made a wonderful couple. Malcolm, who was mature and sophisticated, and—well, just "and." Micheal envied Malcolm's partner, Dale, and wished he too could have a partner as perfect as Malcolm. Dale had come along to pick Malcolm up once after training, about six months before, and to Michael had seemed stuck-up. Younger than Malcolm and incredibly good looking. And sexy. Dale had oozed sexy, and it was hardly surprising that Malcolm and he were together. Malcolm worked in the media Michael knew, so he met all those kind of men all the time. Models, actors, dancers, photographers, designers, all those arty types who always seemed to be so good looking and dressed so casually and well.
Not long after Malcolm had mumbled something about Dale going overseas on a shoot. "How the other half lives," thought Michael, who had traveled overseas but never been flown there at someone else's expense.
"Hi," he said, getting that little thrill he always did when he got close to Malcolm. That "I wanna touch him" urge, which he always pushed aside. "How's Polly today?" he added, bending down to pat her. Patrick coming up with him and doing the sniff thing with Polly and both dogs wagging their whole bodies as they wagged their tales and got reacquainted.
And as the dogs played, the two men started chatting, as they always did, an easy lively chat that put wondering who had sent the roses temporarily out of Michael's mind.
Then the training started, and it was as he headed back to the table after the first training session that Michael saw Malcolm looking worried, though a big smile appeared when he saw Michael coming.
"A good session. Did you see Patrick return? He did it perfectly," Michael said, with pleasure.
"Um, yes I did. He was great." Malcolm hesitated nervously, "Um, did Patrick get the roses Polly sent him?" he blurted out.
"Oh. Polly sent them to Patrick," Michael replied, suddenly disappointed.
