He is talking and talking and talking. Dinner is dragging on, check forgotten on the edge of the table, and I am waiting for him to pick it up, I want to interrupt his monologue, beg him to pay for both of our meals, as he insisted upon over text message. My fingers are gripping the hem of my dress, something I found on a sales rack, I think the seam is uneven. Why am I still sitting here? Why am I smiling? Am I smiling? I haven’t stopped thinking about Laika—not all day, not during this first and only date, the dog the Russians sent into space. Over sixty-five years ago, a stray, sent to oblivion. I cried for several hours, gathering as much information as I could about the dog, who couldn’t get a proper burial due to disintegrating upon re-entry to this terrible planet. Why couldn’t we talk about her? Why didn’t we talk about her every day? She weighed thirteen pounds. They knew she was going to die. She played with children on her last days on Earth. “Are you listening to me?” No. I listen to the stars and hope to hear her bark.