40 mg.

Cherry blossoms in disarray. The world falling apart. Maybe it’s just us.

“Korea has too many damn mountains,” FCNI (that’s pronounced “Fettuccini”) says, but he’s not out of breath. He moves his legs and floats like a leaf. He’s down to 95 pounds, maybe. I never held him in my arms or anything.

Legends of the game, whatever game there is. For FCNI, it’s Baccarat mostly. Same game different name, FCNI likes to say. Quoting Tupac. Or Kanye. One of them. Usually about the New World Order.

Q-Tip is feeling the breeze. He has his eyes closed, his pointy ears back, and his mouth sort of open, lips pulled back like he’s about to sneeze. Nose percolating like a motherfucker. He catches me watching him and breaks into a smile. Hah, hah, hah goes the tongue.

“Just let him loose,” I urge FCNI. FCNI releases the leash and Q-Tip goes into fifth gear up the hill. Who’s he trying to impress anyway? Obviously, us.

And we are, as always, like dads in the stands.

“Look at those hamstrings!” I cry out, but I think I mean haunches. Idk.

FCNI laughs, which more closely means he smirks and wind comes out of his body.

Two seconds later we hear barking.

Q is causing a ruckus. We automatically apologize in our unpolished Korean. A pretty young lady, clutching her little rat puppy in her arms. Not my type, but definitely FCNI’s. She’s the type who’ll accept MasterCard.

“Yo, Q is always finding the hotties,” FCNI says as we watch the delicate hourglass princess evaporate from our existence.

“He’s a good boy,” I say. Rewarding our Spitz with pats on the head. A weird voice you can only use on a dog. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”

Q’s curly tail goes full helicopter.

“Wonder where she works,” FCNI murmurs.

“Not Starbucks.”

The afternoon is slowly fading into evening.

Villas on our right. Scent of grass in the air. An odor you don’t encounter often, except in places you’d rather not be.

Q-Tip keeps us coming here—to the park—for exercise, oxygen. A form of breathing we do both consciously and unconsciously, experiencing these moments as they are.

The streets are blue in shadow. Q sniffs a lamppost and shoots a stream. FCNI lights a cigarette as urine creeps down the sidewalk.

“We need to buy dog food,” I say, realizing we haven’t eaten all day. Not that I’m hungry, but I’m responsible. I know that in order to keep ourselves going, we need that thing that used to dictate time and mark sections of the day.

“Fo sho,” FCNI agrees, making zero suggestions or commitments.

We can starve / subsist on opioids. Q-Tip can’t.

We finish our lap around the park. Q-Tip looks back at us and smiles. He knows we’re talking dinner now.

We talking Turkey Marbella?

The voice of Lt. Colonel Frank Slade interrupts my noble thoughts.

I’ve been watching Scent of a Woman on repeat for thirty days. Not watching really. Background noise. Memorized lines, predictable voices as I sit alone and drift into thoughts, memories—and then nothing.

Q can probably go line for line with me, if only he could talk. He’s used to our habits now. The walks. The sight of a single flame licking the bottom of aluminum foil.

The music that comes after.