Free Durable Goods by Elizabeth Berg

tufted there—like a crazy-man haircut. There is a bush with flowers nearly given up on it, light-pink things with their heads hanging down.
    Dickie pulls out his keys and opens the front door, waves us in. Diane goes first, confidently, and I follow. I am suddenly shy, and wish I had stayed home.
    The living room has a gold rug, a black leather chair, a pole lamp, and a sofa that looks like anybody’s. There is an empty bag of Fritos by the chair, and a newspaper, unopened. There is nothing on the walls, no curtains.
    “Want a beer?” Dickie asks me, and winks.
    I smile, look down, and then hear the faint urgent sounds of puppies. “Is that them?” I ask. “The puppies?”
    “They’re in the kitchen,” Dickie says. “Come see.”
    Diane has stretched out on the sofa, kicked off her shoes, closed her eyes. “Go ahead,” she says. “I’ve seen them a million times.”
    They are in the corner, in a cardboard box lined with a once-pink blanket. They are in their ownmade jumble, paws over heads over rumps, tails sticking out every which way. When they see Dickie, they leap up on wobbly legs, push forward toward him. He kneels down, holds his hand out to them. “I swear they think I’m their father,” he says. He pats each head, and I am amazed to see their tails wag. Their eyes are shiny-new, and their coats, when I touch them, too soft for this world. I sit down on the floor beside them, sigh, smile. “They’re so cute,” I say. This is not it. What I mean is more. I want them. All of them.
    Dickie stands up. “Yeah, they’re cute. But another week and I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with them.”
    I stop petting them. “Can’t you sell them?”
    He laughs.
    “Or give them away?”
    “Maybe some,” he says and goes to the refrigerator, takes out a Lone Star. “Beer?” he asks again.
    And I do an amazing thing. I say, “Yes, please.”
    Dickie laughs.
    “Can I?” I say.
    “Hey, Diane,” he calls. “Should we get your sister drunk?”
    Diane comes into the kitchen, leans against the wall, looks at me. “What the hell,” she says. “You want a beer?”
    “Yeah,” I say.
    “So have a beer,” she says. Her voice is not her own. She is in her own movie.
    Dickie opens a bottle of beer, hands it to me. I take a sip, nod. “It’s good.” It is not, though; it’s bitter. But I like it anyway.
    “I’ll have one,” Diane says, sitting down at the table, and when Dickie gives it to her, I see this is old for her.
    I take another swallow, watch the puppies. “Do you think we can have one, Diane?”
    “No.”
    I pet one head, another rump, feel along the side of yet another leg. “Why not?”
    “Oh,” she sighs, tips her chair back on two legs. “It would be too much work, something like that. I don’t know. He wouldn’t want a dog.”
    “What if we just came home with one? He’d see how cute she is. He might like her.”
    “Try it,” Dickie says. “They need another week, then take your pick.”
    “Shut up, Dickie,” Diane says, but it is a warm thing, not what it seems.
    He comes over to her, picks her up like she is nothing. “Come here,” he says, and starts carrying her off. She is laughing, relaxed. I hear their voices disappear down the hall.
    I drink more beer. The puppies are sleepy, arranging themselves like toys. I wonder where their mother is.
    I hear low talk from Dickie and Diane. They have closed a door behind them. I actually don’t mind. It is nice, sitting in a new place by myself. By the time I finish the beer, I am making plans. I have this confidence, like a good new outfit I’m wearing on the inside.
    I can have a puppy. I can have a boyfriend. I can have a good husband, live in a house with him. I go into the living room, think how I’d decorate it. Well, curtains, for one thing; it is only civilized. And something baking in the oven, to make smells you can almost hold. Some plants. Some pictures we would pick out together: “Do you like