Claire presents her brother with a different type of female when her matchmaking efforts are thwarted. Will Brian like this turn of events, or will it lead to something unexpected?

New York City - Brian's POV - Late Fall

I held the receiver away from my ear and rolled my eyes as my sister Claire prattled on and on about her latest attempt to hook me up with one of New York City's most elite socialites.

"And just what was wrong with this one, Brian? Huh? Most men would kill to have that woman on their arm! Do you know how long I've been trying to convince her to meet you? And you spent, what? Five minutes talking to her tonight? How much could you learn about someone in five minutes? How could you possibly find out if you had anything in common in that short amount of time? She's a wonderful woman, Brian! Bright, funny, comes from a long-standing pedigree...and she happens to find you very attractive, according to what she told me," she added conspiratorially in a whisper, as if that would make any difference to me.

I closed my eyes wearily before I told her, "She just wasn't my type, Claire." I could almost sense the sigh through the phone before I heard it. After all, it wasn't the first time that I had told her that after yet another failed attempt to match me up with a potential wife.

I mouthed the next words perfectly in sync with my sister as she said them aloud; after all, I knew them by heart now. "And just what IS your type, Brian? Do you know how many women I've tried to fix you up with? Each time you find something wrong with them." Another sigh, even heavier this time. "I just don't get it. You're handsome, you're a multimillionaire, and you retired at the age of 40 with a penthouse overlooking Central Park. If none of these women are 'your type,' as you so eloquently put it, I don't understand why you can't find one on your own. They would drop at your fucking feet, if you just let them."

Hell if I know why, I couldn't help thinking. After all, my younger sister Claire had practically gone through the entire "Bluebloods of New York" High Society Book by now, and to no avail. I knew she meant well, but she had no idea what I wanted in a wife; hell, even I didn't know. And besides, my sister wasn't exactly the epitome of faithfulness and fidelity, either, nor a model example of blissful, married life. I had watched on the sidelines at countless weddings as my sister went through husband after husband - she was now on her 9th and threatening any minute to overtake Elizabeth Taylor's record - all the while expressing sympathy for me, the 'poor, sworn bachelor' who appeared to live a rather bleak, bland life all alone and hidden away in his penthouse.

Not for the first time I wondered if I had done the right thing by retiring six months ago. Sometimes I wasn't sure. At the time, the offer to be bought out by one of New York's most up-and-coming advertising agencies for an outrageous amount of money had seemed too good to be true. I had been itching to break away, to take a long sabbatical from all the stress and hectic, non-stop activity to do some of the things I had longed to try, but had never had the time to really pursue: travel, dabble in writing, or perhaps even take up something more physically strenuous like rock climbing or a sport. I had always loved to engage in athletics as a jock in high school, but apart from the occasional round of handball with one of my clients in an attempt to woo them over to the agency that I owned, I had been sadly lacking sufficient time to make it a regular habit, or even to work out at the fitness club down the street. Now, however, retired at an early age and literally sitting on top of the world with a million-dollar view as my playground, I found my ambition and my drive waning. What the hell was wrong with me?

I did enjoy the occasional company of a woman at night; no, make that tolerated. What I thought should be a highly pleasurable experience typically turned out, instead, to be more of a mechanical chore that allowed me to get off, but really didn't seem to bring me to euphoric heights of pleasure; not like I thought I should experience. Was I the one who was lacking in something, then, instead of all these women that my well-meaning sister constantly paraded around in front of me?

"Brian? Are you there? Hello?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose as I heard the front door open and nodded in recognition as Debbie, my personal housekeeper and cook, came in. "I have to go, Claire," I told my sister. "Debbie just got here."

"Brian..."

"Later, Claire," I spoke up a little louder as I firmly hung up the landline phone and sighed.

Debbie pulled off her thin raincoat - the day having started out gray and dreary to match my dour mood - as she hung it up in the closet and turned to me to ask, "Claire playing matchmaker again?"

I rolled my lips under in a trademark smile; Debbie always had been the most perceptive person I know, and after her having been in my employ for over ten years now she knew me - and my sister - quite well. "Yeah. Irene this time."

"Ahh," she replied in understanding with a nod. "What did I tell you? I knew that woman had the hots for you as soon as she showed up here last night. She was eyeing you like a dog salivates over a bone."

I grimaced at the description. "Thanks...I think." She grinned at me and I couldn't help smiling back at her in return.

"So what's on your agenda today, Honey?" she asked me. Only she would ever get away with calling me "honey," but then again Debbie had been known to call everyone that - including Claire, who absolutely hated the cutesy moniker.

I shrugged. "Maybe do a little more writing on my novel," I told her half-heartedly. I was finding it quite difficult to really get engrossed in my writing. My literary professor in college had always told me I was a gifted writer, but up until now the only 'writing' I had normally engaged in was helping to construct advertising copy for a potential client at my now-former agency, Kinnetik. The medical suspense mystery I had always been itching to write was presently a mishmash of muddled thoughts, instead, and I was finding it hard to even concentrate on it. I didn't want to admit that I was feeling like a failure, however; Brian Kinney was NEVER a failure, at least to outward appearances, and I wasn't about to admit defeat now.

Deb nodded at me as she walked over and pulled out a half-apron from the nearby dining room buffet to tie it around her ample waist. "Well, I'll get started on breakfast and have your coffee ready in a jiffy," she told me as I nodded. It was our normal, daily routine; had been for years now, except now I didn't really feel like I had much purpose in life. I didn't have to get up to go to work; I didn't have a shitload of clients to schmooze, and I didn't have any employees to lord over. It was just me and a poor, barely-begun rendition of a novel that would never become a Pulitzer as my constant companion.

Watching as Debbie disappeared into the kitchen, I turned to walk back into my master bedroom suite to pull out my clothes for the day before I took my morning shower: a crisp, light-blue shirt, navy khaki pants with a sharp crease, soft, leather Gucci loafers with matching belt, and a silk tie. I dressed the same regardless of whether or not I had anywhere to go; it was simply the way I had done it for years, and I wasn't about to change my ritual now. My personal mantra had always been: Everything has a place, and everything a purpose. I lived my life on the promise of consistency and regulation each day, and counted on its regularity.

Emerging thirty minutes later, meticulously groomed and shirt neatly tucked inside my pants, I took a moment to admire my still-chiseled physique and lack of gray hair in the dresser mirror before I walked out of my bedroom down the hallway, hearing the doorbell and then my sister's voice. I groaned; what was she doing here? I had just talked to her a few minutes ago. If she was going to try and set me up with yet another blind date, I might just throttle her. Little did I know at the time, however, that she had a female with her, all right, but it wasn't quite the type of female I was expecting.

"Claire?" I called out, slightly annoyed as she turned around and greeted me with...

"What the fuck is THAT?" I asked, my mouth hanging open in disbelief as I pointed at a...thing cradled in her arms. It was white with large ears; I immediately decided it was either some grotesque form of E.T. or an albino version of Yoda; a pair of bulging, luminous, dark eyes peered over at me, a big, flouncy red bow tied around its neck.

Claire smiled over at me radiantly. "Ta da...she's all yours, Brian!"

My eyes widened in both dread and protest. "Oh, no, it's not. You brought it here, you take it back with you - to whatever planet it came from."

She had the gall to laugh at me as she walked closer. "France is not a planet, Brian. She's a French bulldog - and a very expensive one, I might add." She held the dog out toward me by its front paws as she squealed, "Isn't she just the most precious thing you've ever seen?"

The puppy blinked back at me docilely as I looked at her, aghast. She was solid white, except for her pale, pink belly and the pink toenails. "That isn't the word that comes to my mind," I muttered. Just then, Debbie walked in from the kitchen and promptly dropped the feather duster she had in her hand. "What is that doing here?"

"My question exactly; and IT was just leaving."

"Oh, no, she's not," my sister told me as she pressed her lips tightly together in determination, and shoved the 'thing' into my hands before I could protest. It was either drop the damn dog or hold it, so grudgingly I held it out from my body a couple of feet away like I would a dead rat as the animal continued to eye me curiously; she didn't seem nonplussed at all over all the fuss she was causing - or the extreme discomfort I was presently feeling. "Claire..."

"I can't take her back, Brian," my sister told me as if reading my mind. "No returns unless they're unhealthy." She reached over to scratch behind the dog's ears as she cooed in her face, "And this one is just as healthy as they come, aren't you, Precious?" I sighed heavily as she explained, "You didn't like any other females I introduced you to that had a pedigree, so you'd better get used to this one. You're alone far too much and need some companionship." She reached over to kiss my cheek as she turned to go.

"Uh...Claire..."

She arched one perfectly manicured eyebrow at me. "No need to thank me, Brian! Oh, and don't worry; I've arranged for a trainer to come tomorrow to help you get started with...what are you going to name her?"

I scowled at her as I replied, "She isn't going to have a name, because she's leaving. Au Revoir!"

But my sister just smiled at me as if I had just told her, yes, I LOVE whimpering, shitting, poop machines in my penthouse, before she issued a dismissive "Well, you'll think of something! Ta, ta, big brother!" and promptly left, leaving me with my mouth wide open and Debbie standing there in shock.

"You heard what she said, right? That the dog isn't house trained?" she told me as the realization set in. No, I hadn't even thought about that, I thought sarcastically. What did I know about a dog? Shit. In more ways than one. "Debbie..."

"Uh, uh," she told me flatly as she popped a piece of gum and placed her hands on her abundant hips. "I'm paid to be your housekeeper and to cook your meals, NOT to pick up dog poop and clean up piss." She eyed the dog carefully. "And better take her outside; I understand puppies only do three things: eat, sleep, and poop. Kind of like my first husband!" she cackled as she turned to head back into the kitchen. "I'll have your breakfast ready when you get back," she told me. "And better pick up the Sunday paper when you go out, too!" she added. "You're going to need it." With a maddening smirk, then, she turned and headed toward my kitchen. "I'll put dog chow down on the grocery list," she called out as she disappeared. I could hear her snickering as I groaned, studying the small but stocky, squirming package being held out in front of me; the large, dark eyes blinked back at me innocently. "You're not fooling me," I muttered, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. I rolled my eyes in annoyance before letting out a heavy sigh. "Come on," I growled and I turned to head toward the door, still holding the puppy out in front of me. At least it - correction, she - didn't seem to be the shedding type, or she would promptly be tied outside to a light pole with a 'free' sign around her neck. I grimaced, then, realizing that for now, at least, I would have to find a collar and a leash for the beast, too. "Claire," I growled under my breath as, unable to open the door in my present predicament, I wrinkled my nose as I held the pudgy, warm body against my new, Armani cotton shirt, before turning the knob and heading out into the hallway.

Later that Night...

Debbie had left a couple of hours ago, and at last I had some time to recline on my bed, reading glasses on hand as I reached for my edition of today's Wall Street Journal. It was my favorite way to relax at night, and I smiled as I took a sip from my wine glass lying on the nightstand next to me before glancing at the headlines. It had been a hell of a day - having to watch the damn dog like a hawk to make sure she didn't leave me any calling cards around the penthouse - but at last I had her confined in the tiled kitchen by virtue of a folding baby gate the concierge downstairs had managed to find somewhere, and I was finally, blissfully alone. I would still have to figure out what to do with...her. But that could keep until tomorrow. Once I found her a good home (read: ANY home), I wouldn't have to worry about buying anything else. I already had been forced to purchase a collar and leash - obtained, again, by Johnathan, the concierge; I couldn't be bothered by that petty shit - but for now I had made sure that she couldn't escape from her temporary pen. I had grudgingly taken Debbie's advice, and had purchased the Sunday paper; the comic and real estate sections were now temporary design elements on my kitchen floor. I smirked, figuring what Debbie's reaction would be when she arrived for work tomorrow. Well, at least it would be temporary, I reminded myself. Letting out a deep breath to calm myself, I focused my attention on the latest business acquisition from Berkley Enterprises...that is, until I heard the distinctive sound of whimpering noises. It didn't take long to realize where - and whom - they were originating from. "Shit," I muttered in disbelief. "I gave you one of my fucking best blankets!" I removed my reading glasses to pinch the bridge of my nose in aggravation. "What do you WANT? Cashmere?!" I tried furiously to just ignore the whimpering, smiling in relief when it ceased after a couple of minutes...until it started up again, this time even more vociferously than before. "Go to SLEEP!" I growled in annoyance. But the picky prima donna did not seem to understand common English, as she continued to not only whimper loudly now, but also yelp for emphasis.

"Aarrrgh!" Clenching my fists in frustration, I threw my paper down onto the mattress, and - placing my reading glasses on the nightstand - swung my legs to the side and rose to my feet, stomping my way out of the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen.

Five minutes later, I was back in bed, again reading the paper - with the puppy now snoozing contentedly at my feet. Peering over my paper down at the curled up bundle, I couldn't help the smile that escaped my lips as I heard soft snoring. Finally, quiet once more prevailed as I turned the page to continue reading.

The Next Morning - Precisely at 9:00 a.m. - Brian's POV

Wiping her hands on her flowered apron, Debbie glanced over at me curiously as the doorbell sounded, eyeing the newest occupant warily who was snoozing away on my leather sofa.

"It's the trainer," I explained.

"Yours, or the dog's?" she snarked as I scowled at her.

"Just answer the door, Deb."

She smacked her gum, cackling over her joke as she walked over to the door to let the trainer in. "This way," she told the young, dark-haired woman before she had any chance to utter so much as a syllable. "Good luck."

The woman smiled. "Oh, she's a little rambunctious thing, is she?" she chirped with a knowing look. "Oh, don't worry; I haven't met a student I didn't like yet - or couldn't help train."

Debbie smirked. "Oh, I'm not talking about the dog; I'm talking about the owner." She grinned at the woman's confounded expression as she led her over to me, and I got my first glimpse of the trainer who was supposed to be my version of the Dog Whisperer. She didn't look a day over 10, I decided, as she walked up and confidently thrust her hand out at me.

"The name's Missy!" she told me as I warily shook her hand. "And you must be Mr. Kinney!"

I snickered. "Very astute. I guess the dog I'm holding in my arms didn't give anything away?"

She didn't take the bait as her eyes widened with delight. "Oh, just who is this precious thing?" She glanced up at me as the Yoda lookalike's eyes blinked and the puppy's ears perked up at the sound of her girlish voice, apparently expecting me to supply her with that information.

"She doesn't have a name," I explained. "Can't she just answer to 'little shit,' or something? She's not going to stay here."

Missy frowned in disbelief as she looked at the pudgy bundle in my arms. "Oh, how could you even think of sending someone like her away?" she cried out in shock. She smiled broadly at 'what's her name.' "Now we simply must have a name for her. One word names are best," she instructed me as she studied her carefully, her index finger pressed into her lower lip. "Let's see...she has a sweet face, a strong build...and is very quiet!"

I snickered. "Sounds like the perfect wife," I decided. A sudden thought occurred to me as I smiled. "That's it!" I decided immediately. "Mrs. Kinney."

"Excuse me?"

I smiled with a nod. "Her name. Mrs. Kinney."

Her expression faltered. "Well...that is a rather...unique name. Are you sure?"

I grinned in total satisfaction as I held the dog up in front of my face to look into her large, dark eyes. I could hear her panting softly as I smiled. "Mrs. Kinney," I tried it out with a nod. "Yes." I placed her down on the ground, her leash holding her securely by my side. "Mrs. Kinney and I are ready," I told her.

She hesitated for a moment before apparently deciding she was going to abide by the 'customer is always right' motto. "Well, okay, then...Mrs. Kinney it is!" she chirped with a smile. "Now our first lesson today will be about house training her..."

"Definitely," I agreed as Debbie nodded. I knew if anyone would be cleaning shit up off the floor, it wouldn't be her. Why did I agree to hire her again? I wondered. But she had been much too good to my now deceased parents to employ anyone else. And let's face it, she could banter the bullshit back and forth with me like no other - with not a modicum of fear in her body, too.

Missy nodded at me. "Very well...let's start by showing Mrs. Kinney here how she knows to go outside. We use positive reinforcement and encouragement, never sharp words or reprimands. She will learn by the tone of your voice, and the motion of your hands."

I nodded, uncertain of how that would work. As the owner (well, former owner) of one of the largest advertising firms in New York City, I felt visual images were much more important, not the tone of my voice. It's not like the damn dog spoke English, I thought.

As if reading my mind, Missy spoke up. "Dogs are very intuitive," she told me. "They look to you for guidance and encouragement, and that's accomplished by action as well as voice. Let me show you."

Debbie watched from her place near the living room couch, eying me with amusement as I scoffed dubiously. "I'm not so sure that's going to make a difference..."

"Oh, now don't you worry!" she exclaimed way too exuberantly for my taste, her face breaking out into a big smile. "We'll have your little bundle of joy housetrained in no time!"

I scowled at Debbie as she had the nerve to guffaw right then. Ignoring her, I tugged on Mrs. Kinney's leash and followed Missy over to the door, not admitting to myself or to Debbie that I thought I was out of my fucking mind.

The Next Day...

"Good Morning, Mr. Kinney," James greeted me with a tip of his uniform cap as he held the building's front door open for me. He glanced down at the poop machine on four legs, and then back up at me with a quizzical smile. "New member of the family?" he asked politely in amusement.

"Temporary member," I hastened to explain, still trying to convince myself that this arrangement wasn't permanent; why did I somehow suspect, however, that I was going to be proven wrong? I winced as the bright sunlight glared back at me, even at 8:00 in the morning. I thought briefly of having James find someone to walk Mrs. Kinney for me, but since I enjoyed meandering around the park anyway, I decided I could handle taking her along with me.

"Oh...a shame," James responded with a smile at the puppy. "She looks like a strong, little thing."

"Yeah...Built just like a roller derby queen," I quipped dryly as he chuckled.

"Well, have a nice walk, Mr. Kinney." He glanced down at the puppy again. "You, too...uh...what's her name?"

"Mrs. Kinney. But just like the ones who get married in Vegas, she's not staying long."

The doorman laughed at the odd choice. "Well, that's a shame," James commented. "She's a real cutie."

A sudden idea occurred to me then; James had two kids from what I recalled. "How'd you like to keep her?" I asked hopefully. But my hopes were dashed when he shook his head regretfully.

"I wish I could," he answered, as he tipped his cap at someone else entering the building. "But the wife's deathly allergic to animal dander. That's why we have fish," he explained with a grin.

I nodded in disappointment, figuring I'd best get going, or Princess here would be leaving her indelible mark on the few trees scattered on the sidewalk, and that was strictly forbidden around here. "Well, have a good day, James."

"You, too, Mr. Kinney. Mrs. Kinney," he added with a chuckle and a tip of his cap at her. With one more, regretful glance from James toward my companion, I nodded and headed down the sidewalk toward the sidewalk directly across from the park's main entrance. When I was working at my desk on 56th street, high above Central Park, I used to find great solace in walking over to my expansive office windows to gaze down upon Mirror Lake and the surrounding greenery. It always helped to ground me somehow, and now that I was a 'man of leisure,' I made it a point to take a daily walk around the expansive acreage, inevitably winding up at one of my favorite park benches. It was located a fairly short walk within the park, along a heavily treed boulevard, but far enough from the main entrance that most people did not venture there this early in the morning. I found it quite relaxing and invigorating; not to mention, it invariably supplied me with some interesting people watching, from roller skaters, to lovers holding hands, to little old grandmas carrying large satchels with who-knew-what inside, or would-be opera divas, taking advantage of the performance shell's excellent outdoor acoustics to practice their singing. I even occasionally was serenaded by traveling musicians - everything from saxophone and violin players to the more obscure bagpipe players. No matter what day it was, however, I could always anticipate something interesting to occupy my time.

And I had plenty of time, now that I wasn't working. Some days I thought it was wonderful - to have so much free time now to do whatever I wanted to do. Most days, though, I felt lost. It wasn't that I needed to work; wise investments, along with an excellent marketing and advertising acumen, had made me a very rich man at a fairly early age. But sometimes I felt like I hadn't retired because I wanted to; I felt like I had retired because everyone else expected me to. After all, what man my age WOULDN'T prefer to spend their time on leisurely pursuits, rather than sitting behind an office desk all day long, only dreaming of such a privilege? But to me - a man who had always gotten such a rush out of the thrill of the hunt when it came to pursuing lucrative clients - I found myself floundering with my new-found free time.

Sighing, I looked down as my companion squatting in the grass to do her thing. Thank God she had waited until we arrived at the park to take a crap. The thought of her doing THAT - not to mention the smell - in my kitchen or anywhere else in my penthouse made me want to gag. Just for my own protection, however, I had taken her out in the middle of the night so she could piss; I wasn't taking any chances. I imagined that even on newspaper, getting the smell of urine out of expensive hardwood could be a real bitch.

"Good dog!" I praised her enthusiastically, trying to follow the trainer's advice. I was NOT, however, going to utter 'pissy, pissy,' every time she did her thing outside, or 'poopie, poopie,' when she shit. That is where I drew the line. Instead, I'll try the encouraging route instead of berating her when she makes a mistake, since my own employees seem to respond better that way and I figure as they say, Why fix it if it isn't broken? Besides, what did I know about housetraining a dog? I didn't even WANT to know how to housetrain a dog. But for the time being, I had no choice, unless I wanted my hardwood floors stained a very unwelcome color, and a housekeeper fussing at me 24/7.

Her business done, the two of us slowly advanced toward my favorite area of the park; after several minutes, I eventually became a little impatient and picked her up to speed our progress somewhat, since her stocky, little legs reminded me of a toddler learning to walk for the first time, and I figured at the rate we were going it would be hours before we reached our destination. In addition, she seemed to find each blade of grass or tree trunk incredibly fascinating, so I dismissed any gesture of carrying her against my chest as anything but a convenience. She had already thrown my schedule off by at least fifteen minutes.

Finally reaching the familiar grove of hardwood trees draped across the paved boulevard, I headed toward my favorite park bench - only to observe that someone else had already commandeered it. My mouth opened in shock and indignation. What the hell? I silently seethed. How dare someone else take MY bench, especially when there were several others around! And not only that, but the man sitting there had a dog with him, too! Some stocky, low-to-the-ground, brown-and-white concoction that faintly resembled the substantial little body I was currently holding in my arms, was tied to a leg of the bench, sniffing around his immediate surroundings as the man gazed off into the distance, his body slightly turned away from me. I noticed he was wearing a casual outfit of a ball cap, an open, short-sleeved, maroon-and-white paisley shirt, a pair of beige Chinos, and some well-worn sneakers. Obviously this guy wasn't too fashion conscious.

Feeling suddenly ridiculous and embarrassed over carrying a fucking puppy in my arms, I gently lowered the white bundle down onto the ground as she began to curiously do some tentative exploring. I held onto her leash as I walked closer to 'MY' bench, affronted that anyone would have the gall to pick THAT one out of all the benches available. As I approached, though, the man must have sensed me, because he turned his head to peer over at me, and the smile I received caused any indignant words to die in my throat before I could utter them.

"Hi," the young man greeted me. I noticed him glance down at 'her' curiously, and his smile became even more radiant, if that was possible. I was surprised to find that it momentarily stunned me, and I felt something flutter inside my stomach for a moment before he asked, "And who is this?" He reached down to scratch the top of her head, affectionately rubbing her ears. I noticed she seemed to be eating up the attention. He peered up at me expectantly for an answer, as his dog walked over and sniffed my dog curiously, starting with her rump; the puppy's short tail began to wag furiously in response.

I blurted out the same thing that had come to my mind earlier with James. "Mrs. Kinney."

He looked at me in surprise before he burst into laughter; it was a musical sort of sound, and for some reason I found it quite captivating. I couldn't help smiling back at him in reaction as he replied, "Mrs. Kinney? I'm not sure your wife would appreciate that...although she IS cute."

"There IS no other Mrs. Kinney," I informed him. "This is going to be the ONLY Mrs. Kinney, even though Claire keeps trying to fix me up."

"Claire?" the man asked, squinting under the glare of the bright sun slowly rising between the canopy of trees.

I nodded. "My younger sister."

He nodded back at me, resting his arms along the back of the bench, angling one leg over the other one as he took a deep breath and smiled, closing his eyes. "I love coming here," he murmured contently.

I studied him for a moment before I pointed out, "I've never seen you here before."

He opened his eyes back up then to explain, "I'm usually here earlier. I was running late because I had to deliver a painting across town first."

"You're a mover?" I asked. He looked a little too...fragile to be a mover. Most movers I thought of were big and bulky.

He laughed again, that tinkling sort of laugh from before. "No. I'm an artist. I paint them. But I guess you could say I'm a part-time mover, too. Starving artists have to be versatile."

I nodded in understanding. "How long have you been painting?"

He grinned. "Well, depends upon whom you ask. If you ask my mom, she would say ever since she gave birth to me. She always claims I had a crayon clutched in my hand from the time I came out of her womb. But if you ask me, I'd say since kindergarten."

I laughed. "Oh...so about ten years ago, then?"

"Huh?" I thought I saw him blush as he replied a little indignantly, "No, NOT ten years ago! How young do you think I am?" He sighed. "Fuck, I get that all the time!"

"Well, some people would consider that a compliment," I pointed out, peering at him curiously. "Just how old ARE you?"

"Old enough to be more than legal," was the mysterious answer, making me wonder just what sort of 'legal' activity he was referring to. Why did I care, though? I didn't even KNOW this person, and I figured I would never see him - or his little dog - ever again. I smirked then, thinking how I suddenly sounded like the Wicked Witch of the West. "What?" he asked curiously.

I shook my head. "Nothing," I told him in dismissal as I peered down at his dog, who was hopping around my own excitedly, making some sort of snorting sound as he played with her. "Just what sort of dog IS that?" I asked. "Are your sure it's a dog, and not a pig?"

He laughed. I was beginning to LIKE that laugh. "He's a pug; they always make that kind of sound when they're excited."

I nodded in amusement. "And pray tell, what's the pig's name? Porky? Piglet?"

He smiled at me broadly, which, for some reason, made my pulse race. "His name is Reginald. Reggie for short."

"Reggie," I repeated as I studied the stocky canine. "Hmm...I think it fits in some weird way," I decided as he grinned back at me.

He studied me for a few seconds until he scooted over on the bench. "Have a seat? The two kids here can get acquainted. Oh, sorry...I mean your wife." He chuckled as I scowled at him, but I walked over and sat down on the other end of the bench.

"At the risk of sounding trite, do you come here often?" he asked. "You mentioned you had never seen me here before."

I nodded. "Yeah. I usually come here every morning." I gazed out onto the tall, sweeping trees that graced Central Park as I explained, "I find it peaceful here." I turned my attention back to my companion. "You?"

He nodded. "Me, too. But I'm usually here earlier. Reggie there is an early riser, so I'm normally out and about by 8." He shook his head in amazement. "I never used to get up that early until HE came along. He was a gift from a former boyfriend. That's about the only thing I have left of him now." There was a hint of sadness in his voice as my eyes widened in realization, and manners or not, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.

"Boyfriend? So you're...?"

He smiled at me good-naturedly as he finished my thought. "Gay?"

I nodded.

He squinted at me before lowering his face to hide the sun with his ball cap. He nodded. "Yep," he simply said as he stared over at me, making me uncomfortable for some reason. It wasn't that I was some homophobic bigot. But frankly I just didn't see the attraction for a man toward another man. As if reading my thoughts, he asked quietly, his expression open and candid, "Does that bother you?"

I shook my head, feeling awkward. "No," I struggled to explain. "I just have trouble wrapping my head around it," I admitted. Unexpectedly he laughed at me then. "What?" I asked, confused.

He grinned as he reached down to untangle his dog's leash from the leg of the bench. "Nothing. That's just a funny way of putting it."

I frowned until I considered what I had said, and then I found myself inexplicably blushing. "Oh."

"You?"

I peered over at him. "Huh?"

"And you? You're...straight?"

How had I gotten into this conversation with a virtual stranger? I cleared my throat as he stared over at me with the clearest, bluest eyes I had ever seen. "Yeah."

He nodded. "I thought so."

I frowned. "You did? Why? Do I look like I'm straight?"

He laughed. "No...that's just an old wives' tale that you can tell by the way someone looks whether they're straight or gay. You just mentioned how your sister was constantly trying to match you up with someone, so I just assumed, that's all."

I snorted. "Oh. That's an understatement! If Claire had HER way, I'd have been married a long time ago to some blueblood with a pedigree longer than a Westminster champion." He chuckled at that, and I couldn't smiling back at him.

"But you don't want that? To settle down and all?"

I shrugged. "Who knows? Honestly? I'm not sure. But I just haven't found the right person yet." He nodded back at me, a solemn look on his face. I didn't quite know how to reverse the question in his case. What would I say? Met any interesting guys lately? Where do you go to find them? I wasn't even sure what you would do once you found one, anyway. Probably better off not to go there, then, I decided, as I changed the subject. "So you're a painter."

He nodded. "That's right. And what do you do?"

"Did. What did I USED to do," I corrected him. "I'm retired, actually."

His eyes widened in surprise, and I thought I detected just a bit of envy on his face as he asked me, "Wow. How did you manage that? You don't look a day over..."

"Watch it," I warned him as he grinned.

"Thirty?"

I grinned in satisfaction. "Close enough."

He rolled his eyes. "Come on! You're young either way. But just HOW young?"

I considered my response briefly before I decided there was no point in denying it. I knew even at my age, I was still considered a good catch. Being handsome - and having wads of money - normally made a person seem quite attractive. "I just turned 40 a month ago," I divulged.

He smiled. "You are very well preserved to be 40."

"Excuse me?" I asked, feeling insulted. "At least I'm old enough to drink booze and drive."

He laughed then; a hearty, amused laugh, and I couldn't help rolling my lips under playfully.

"I'll have you know, Mr. Kinney, that my 27th birthday is coming up next month."

Now it was MY turn to gape back at him. "Twenty-seven?" He nodded at me as my eyes widened. "Well, apparently you're more well-preserved than I, then."

He grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment." He glanced down at his watch and suddenly stood up. "Shit, I didn't realize how late it was," he told me. He squatted down next to the bench leg to undo his dog's leash before standing back up...not before I had a chance to view his ass. And it was a very attractive one, too, I had to admit. I blinked in shock. Why in the hell was I thinking about THAT?

"Uh...you said you come here every morning?"

I nodded. "Yeah. And I'll HAVE to especially now...now that I have custody of this never-ending shitting and pissing machine." I sighed. "Claire is taking Mrs. Kinney back the next time she comes over to visit. Funny how she's made herself quite scarce since bringing her over to me. I'm sure it's just a coincidence, though," I told him, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, you won't get rid of her," the man told me as he turned to go. "You've got 'dog person' written all over you." I opened my mouth to protest, but didn't get a chance as he asked, "So...same time tomorrow, same bench?"

Didn't he just get through telling me that he normally came here an hour earlier? I recalled. But I nodded my head anyway, as Mrs. Kinney strained on her leash in an attempt to follow her newly-found friend. "Now don't get all hot and bothered, girl," I told her. "You'll see your little friend again tomorrow," I found myself assuring her. Was I truly out of my mind? But I figured, what the hell? "Okay," I agreed as he smiled at me and nodded.

"Good. Well...I best be going, then. Come on, Reggie! We're late!" he urged the pug, as the two of them headed over toward the nearby walkway.

"Hey! Wait a minute!"

He turned to look at me as I explained, "I know your dog's name...but I don't know yours," I pointed out, suddenly needing to know.

He smiled and nodded in understanding. "Justin. Justin Taylor."

"Nice to meet you, Justin Taylor. I'm Brian. Brian Kinney."

Justin grinned. "Well, I figured out the last name," he pointed out as I smiled back at him and nodded. "But nice to know the rest. Likewise. So...see you tomorrow?"

I nodded in confirmation as - with a final wave from my new acquaintance - the two of them soon disappeared out of sight around the bend, the young man I had just met lingering in my mind for a long time afterward.