On the way home, I stopped at a stoplight. I felt someone watching me, so I turned, and an enormous dog, with big, deep brown eyes was hanging halfway out the window, staring at me. Startled, I stared back. He was so happy, and I wanted to talk to him and be happy with him. I didn't talk to him, but I did stop and stare, glancing at the light every few seconds to see if it turned green.
He stared at me, happy. I stared at him, soaking it in. This went on for a good thirty seconds, and when I say good, it was good, you know what I mean?
The light turned green, I pulled ahead; through the rear view mirror I saw the people in the front seats. The driver was a hip looking guy in his early thirties, wearing glasses and no shirt. He was screaming at the woman in the passenger seat. Yelling, gesturing, upset and angry. The woman stared off into space; distant, wearing a tired, emotionless mask and clearly, emphatically, not listening. The happiest dog in the world was enjoying the breeze—leaning forward as far as he could without falling.
I turned at the next light, and the car drove on: yelling, gesturing, and angry; distant, tired, and emotionless; jowls, tongue, and spit flapping in the wind.