For several weeks before the husband comes to the apartment to pick up the dog, her bud entertains her with a number of hypothetical scenarios about how it will go when they all interact. In reality this interaction will last all of about two uncomfortable minutes, if that.
I’m not happy with him, her bud says when the buzzer rings. I don’t think I can pretend to be nice.
You don’t have to. He’s going to come and go.
What would you do if the two of us actually got into a fight, like a real fistfight?
She thinks about it for two seconds. In the first second she thinks, Oh my god that would be horrible, and in the second second she smiles and at about the exact second that he’s going to say a version of the same thing, she says I mean, I might be turned on a little bit.
She opens the door and the husband smiles and he’s still so cute, not so cute that she can forget what he’s done, but so cute, and she’s so anxious about it that she kind of checks out and rushes him out. Here’s his leash, here’s his glucosamine, see you in three weeks.