She Stays: Night After Night - by Diana Piner

The knot holds her. Rain runs down the open coat and cools the skin just above where the dog’s weight presses hot against the broad shelf of her ass. Brenda stays bent, forehead to the brick, one hand on the heavy curve of her stomach, and does not pull forward. Three nights earlier she had still been walking the blocks with the cup out and the paper bag under her arm, telling herself the only job was to reach the doorway, eat, and sleep. The dog had stepped from behind the tires with a low, continuous growl. She had tried to move faster. It had matched her. When she fell she had seen what it wanted, felt the teeth on her sleeve, and reached back herself to shove the wet jeans and panties down. The stretch had burned. She had told herself she did it so it would not bite. The sentence had never settled cleanly. Now the days are quieter. The dog sits calm at the edge of the sidewalk and people drop more into the cup. At dusk its shoulders tighten.