Honeybelle looks like a model -- a gorgeous, sexy, willowy blonde. Oh, and brilliant and compassionate.
Joe worked for greedy money-hungry gamblers. He ran around the track one thousand times at least. He cried in his sleep.
A young black man, high cheekbones and kind eyes, slack jeans and a red-and-white bandana around his neck, gangster-style suggested in his low-rider gait.
Three lives with no reason to overlap, nearly impossible odds for these three souls to cross paths.
Honeybelle not from here, Joe also from somewhere else, running that track, and the young strolling gentleman quite possibly the only native.
But for now, for work, here was working for Honeybelle, and Joe was her newly rescued retired greyhound.
And for right now Joe needed to pee. Honeybelle harnessed her charge humanely and off they went for a walk. Joe was sporting his black winter coat, super chic. Honeybelle matched him.
Coming toward them was the young gentleman. Slouchy stroll. Honeybelle and Joe proceeded, looking like a page out of Vogue.
Their lives would intertwine, kismet happening.
The gentleman's focus was inward. Those kind eyes occupied with something, maybe the music from his headphones.
Until one step closer to Honeybelle and Joe. And then he noticed them.
She felt it, Joe was alert.
The gentleman without breaking his stride raised those eyes, focusing.
The three of them passed. Electric. The gentleman's eyes were trained on Joe. "Hey Homes," he casually said to the hound.
The moment was instantly over, and forever after Joe was known as Homes.