Chet The Dog

Tassa laughed and put her hands around his waist. They roared out of town, headed for Tassa’s older sister’s place, a farm in the foothills, about forty kilometers away. There was hardly any talking, just Tassa saying “turn here,” or “second right,” the route going from wide two-lane pavement with lots of traffic to narrow two-lane pavement with less, to gravel and dirt with hardly anyone on it except for an occasional tractor, horse-drawn carts, and barking dogs who chased after them. At first, Tassa’s hands felt awkward to him, but she changed the position a bit, maybe simply relaxing, and after that things felt right, like the three of them – Dinu, Tassa, 660Z – were one. She hummed to herself.