So this just happened:
Came home from having a very civilized post-work drink and a half with Z, with tons of lovely conversation that involved neither IELTS nor teaching, but which covered (my favorite) books, (he likes Orhan Pamuk- red flag, friend-wise?) and Kurdish politics and why babies and onlies get along so well together and whether I could get a feminine tattoo of a gas mask, or whether I’d have to give up on that idea and just go for the dove with the gas mask… (heads up, ma) and he dropped me off at my door like a gentleman and wandered home while I fumbled for my key in my new bra, and somehow when I was letting myself in I also let in a stray dog.
Now, the stray dogs of Moda are notoriously affable. Avuncular, even. I swear some of em are watching out for me when I walk to work. Despite having grown up with far too many of them, or perhaps because of, that’s a conversation for the therapist, dogs tend to make me a wee bit nervous. Big dogs especially. The dudes we got around here are so unbelievably fat and lazy and well cared for my intellectual brain KNOWS there’s no way any of the neighborhood dogs would so much as look at me funny,much less snap or bite, but the lizard brain part doesn’t quite buy all the empiracal evidence. And this fat fuck, despite being a third my height, outweighs me.
He walked in with such determination, too, like he knew exactly what he was doing. He just marched right upstairs.
So this is an ethical problem: how bad of a person is Agent L if she just hunkers down and pretends not to know anything about anything, if she pretends to simply not be home?