My Love Affair

My Love Affair

by Atlas Wilder

Arthur didn't have a midlife crisis. He had a midlife arrest. He stood in the interrogation room, his knees knocking together like maracas, staring at the plastic divider that separated him from the officer who looked as if he’d been chewing on a lemon for a decade.

Arthur's knees had never knocked like this before, not even during his disastrous presentation at the regional accounting conference last spring. That time, he'd been merely embarrassed professionally. Tonight, he faced something far worse—humiliation of the soul. He'd spent forty-seven years carefully building a life of beige respectability: the sensible mortgage, the wife who organized her spice rack alphabetically, the daughter who called only when she needed money. Now all of it had dissolved in a moment of moonlit madness with a dog named Buster.

“I just want to get this straight,” the officer said, tapping his pen on the table. “You’re saying you were caught in a compromising position with a Golden Retriever?”

“Border collie, actually,” Arthur corrected. “His name is Buster. He’s a good boy.”

“And you’re the one who initiated this... encounter?”

“It was 2:00 AM,” Arthur said, his voice cracking. “I was tired, stressed, and feeling more alone than ever. I had a pressing need to be told I was handsome by someone who couldn't speak English—someone who'd just accept me, no questions asked.”

The officer stared at him.

“So,” Arthur continued, desperate to justify himself. “I went to the park because I couldn't sleep thinking about how disconnected I feel from my life. Buster was there. I saw him. He looked at me. It felt like someone finally saw me.

Buster wasn't just any border collie. He had the kind of intelligence in his eyes that made you believe he understood the fundamental injustices of the universe. His fur was a patchwork of black and white, like a negative photograph of some more colourful existence. One ear stood at attention while the other flopped forward, giving him a perpetually quizzical expression. When Arthur first spotted him, Buster had been staring at the moon with an intensity usually reserved for philosophers or poets, as if communing with distant ancestors who had once roamed these same hills as wolves.

I sat on the bench. We sat there. Then the moon hit his fur just right. It was cinematic. So I reached over, patted his head, and whispered, You are a magnificent, swirling ball of starlight, Buster.”

“You whispered that?”

“Into his ear. Very softly.”

“And then?”

“And then I put my face right up against his. I inhaled deeply. I said, Mmm, dog breath. Mmm, unconditional love. Mmm, I wish my wife loved me like this.”

“And then what happened?”

“Buster sneezed.”

“What?”

“A massive, wet, lung-clearing sneeze. Right into my face.”

“And that was the compromising position?”

“That was the start of it,” Arthur said. “I didn't move. I couldn't. I was entranced by his sneeze. I was witnessing the birth of a star. I leaned in closer. I said, Bless you, you magnificent creature. I love you more than I love... I don't know, I love you more than pizza.”

“Then?”

“Then Buster decided to lick my nose.”

“He licked your nose?”

“He licked it. Then he tried to bite my ear. A little nip. Just a nip. He stood up, walked over to the trash can, sniffed it, and walked away.”

“And you were arrested because?”

“When he walked away, I started sobbing. Like, ugly-crying. Then I tried to explain to a passing jogger that Buster was my soulmate. The jogger wore tiny shorts and judgment in equal, uncomfortable proportions. The jogger called the police.”

The officer stared at him in a long, uncomfortable silence.

During the silence, Arthur studied the officer across from him. The name tag read “Officer Martinez,” and beneath the weathered features, Arthur detected something soft, almost wounded. Martinez had that particular look of a man who had given up on something essential years ago but still showed up every day out of sheer habit. His lemon-sucking expression wasn't disdain, Arthur realized suddenly—it was the residue of countless disappointments, both professional and personal. They were more alike than different, this officer and him.

Then he sighed. He reached into his desk, pulled out a notepad, and started writing.

“I'm taking notes,” the officer said.

“Is that normal?” Arthur asked.

“Is what normal?”

“Writing down that I talked to a dog?”

“No,” the officer said. “I'm writing down that I need to get a Golden Retriever. Sounds like a good listener. Beats my wife.”

Arthur stared at him. “You think I'm crazy.”

“No,” the officer said, looking up. “I think you're lonely, and you have terrible taste in women.”

“Hey,” Arthur protested. “I'm a good husband. I take out the garbage. I pay the bills. I just needed something because it feels like everything safe and familiar has drifted away. I just wanted to feel needed, even for a minute.”

“And you found it in a park at 2:00 AM, with a Border Collie named Buster.”

“I found my joy.”

“Fine,” the officer said, tearing off the page. “Case dismissed. But next time, Arthur? Bring a treat. It makes you look less pathetic.”

Arthur walked out of the station. The station door opened with a sound like a thousand tiny tragedies. The cool April air hit his face. With each step, his chest felt lighter, a strange new ease replacing the anxiety from before. He smiled as memories of Buster and the moonlit park washed over him, warmth rising in his chest, laughter building behind his lips.

He chuckled.

Heh.

He chuckled again, louder this time. Heh-heh.

Still chuckling, Arthur walked down the street, feeling almost buoyant. The rush faded suddenly as he remembered his wife. The smile dropped away; the world felt heavier. He paused, looking down, frowning toward the pavement, then glancing back at the station.

Then he sighed. It was a long, weary sigh.

“Arrest me,” he whispered to himself. “Arrest me for a second time.”