Mew

a man in his 30s, purposeful hair, Roger Crook and his medium-sized dog Dr. Katz were unintentionally rubbing up against Miltane Toxtooth, Mew to his friends, on a rail commute into the city. a bit of turbulence brought Roger Crook to an awareness of their proximity. he then began to exploit the situation for all it was worth, obsessively adjusting the hem of his trousers, going for his wallet in his back pocket, going for his watch in the front pocket, anything to accidentally brush up against Mr. Toxtooth. for you see, Mew Toxtooth was gorgeous. this was not in any way Mew's first incident on public transportation. Mew had been trying out a birthday present, reading glasses, glasses which display words, books newspapers, whatever; he was reading Doris Lessing's Briefing for a Descent into Hell for the fourth time, once in hardback, once in paperback, once on an ex-girlfriend's phone and now once on glasses, but of course it was impossible to concentrate with the sexual erosion of his outer membrane taking place. fed up, he turned to Mr. Crook and said loudly, forcefully, "say, what kind of dog you got there?"
the suddenness of it, the force and volume and to at last be acknowledged by this beautiful man proved too much for Mr. Crook who stammered, "it's a... it's a... goh... golden rit... golden retriever," as embarrassment saturated the front of his pants. it would be the most confusing yet not unsatisfying orgasm of Mr. Crook's entire life.
what was so fetching about Mew Toxtooth? well, he smelled great. inexplicably, he always smelled of either caramels, apples, cut wood or rain. when he stank he smelled of beef stew, which smells pretty good unless you're a vegetarian. what else? he was tall but not too tall, 6'4". he was strapping but not too strapping. his face was honest and his eyes were clear. i guess that's it.
Mew had a job at an art gallery. he knew very little about contemporary art. actually, he had a few volumes in his home on art history and they were not neglected. but contemporary art was an enigma, and he didnt mind keeping things this way. he worked for a shrewd middle-aged woman named Gillie Foercastile. Mew didnt really have a job title, some days he just went in and sipped coffee for a while. but Gillie knew the artists would like having him around, to ogle, and subtly she had landed some big accounts while he stood sipping coffee.
"what do you think Mew? should i sign with Gillie here?"
"oh yeah, Gillie takes good care of us."
Mew liked helping the artists, doing the grunt work, helping the professionals from the moving company, putting nails in the walls, climbing ladders, changing lightbulbs. he liked these tasks. he liked that his job consisted of tasks, he did not want an occupation, a career.
some people assumed because he was beautiful and had this weird job that he was lazy and/or screwing the boss lady. he was not lazy and he was not screwing the boss lady. he was lucky to have found himself in the employ of Ms. Foercastile who was genuinely not interested in sexual power games. she had three kinds of vibrators for times when her mind strayed from her business ledger. she epitomized shrewdness and the artists in her fold loved it, every penny accounted for.
who was beautiful Mew Toxtooth screwing then? one of his artist friends had set him up with a figure drawing class which met once a month. it would be Mew and a bohemian free spirit-type girl. inevitably, Mew and the model would hook up for two or three weeks and then something would come up in her life and she would have to move to Boulder Colorado. Mew thought that someday he would have to visit this Boulder Colorado. would everyone be naked?
"what do you think Mew?"
Mew had no idea what he was looking at but it looked runny. maybe it was made of gravy? but then, as always happened if he knew the artist pretty well, he saw the artist in the piece, not so much in a figurative sense, but he saw how that artist was made of gravy.
"i see how you are made of gravy," he said.
"thanks Mew."