"The Ingrid That Marvin Remembers"
Ingrid walks past the remains of summer: shuttered candy stores, t-shirt shops faded by sun and wind and salt, restaurant windows clouded from both inside and out. The kind of coastal town that empties out after Labor Day, leaving depression and flip-flop-wearing ghosts in its wake. The off-season remnants of this once popular place are not lost on her.
It’s a windy November Wednesday, the air wet and undecided. She stops in front of a storefront, its two mannequins flirting cheerfully, one in a green-and-blue checked bikini, waving while holding a seashell tchotchke in her other hand, the other in bootie shorts and a crop top, one hand on hip, the other hand holding a faded beer huggie. Ingrid stares at them, waiting to see which one blinks first.
Marvin, her small mutt with uncertain lineage, trots beside her in practiced silence. He watches her more closely lately, more closely than she knows, tracking her pace, her breath, the slouch in her shoulders. There’s a lot he sees in her lately, this coming loss.
The drizzle beads on her coat. Marvin leans into her leg briefly, as if to say: "I understand. But know that there's a part of you that will survive. For me, at least."
Their eyes meet, and he believes she almost understands.