"No."

"Please?"

"No, Quinn."

"C'mon, it's just a week."

"No."

"But he loves you, Santana."

"No."

"I'll pay you?" Quinn tried with a hopeful smile.

Santana scoffed. "I make five times more than you, Quinn. I don't need your money."

"Ugh, fine." Quinn frowned at Sandy, rubbing sadly at his ears. "Let's go, Sandy," she crooned. "Santana doesn't love us anymore."

Santana watched with disgust as Quinn talked to her dog like it was a baby or something. Who names their dog Sandy anyway? Especially their very male, very big Golden Retriever.

Quinn sent Santana a last disappointed look as she tugged on Sandy's leash and led him to the door of Santana's apartment. "We'll find you a place to stay, okay, Sandy? I'm just leaving for a week. You'll be okay," she reassured him. Quinn looked over her shoulder at Santana, no doubt waiting for Santana's pity.

But Santana held her ground. She crossed her arms defiantly as Quinn dragged her sloppy Golden Retriever out of Santana's apartment. At last, they made it out, though after a bit of a struggle—whether intended or not—and the door closed behind them.

Santana shook her head to herself, making her way over to her kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. It was hard having Quinn as a best friend sometimes, what with all of her sudden business trips and dog problems. And Santana wasn't, like, a bitch. Okay, fine, maybe she was. But her apartment was just really clean and orderly, okay? The dog would totally mess everything up. Not to mention her shoes. Oh, God, she certainly couldn't have Sandy gnawing on all of her most treasured possessions.

Crap, she just called that dog by his dumb name. Ugh.

No more than two minutes after Santana got lost in her thoughts, her door opened again.

Quinn marched up to Santana with Sandy in tow. "Nicole," she said with a determined look on her face.

Santana frowned. "Quinn, what the—"

"I'll introduce you to Nicole if—"

"You told me Nicole had a boyfriend!" Santana gasped.

"Well, I lied." Quinn rolled her eyes and shrugged as if it were no big deal. "Whatever. Look, if you take Sandy in for a week while I'm away, I'll make sure to introduce you to Nicole once I get back."

"You are such a manipulative bitch," Santana said, narrowing her eyes.

"Why else are we friends?" Quinn replied smugly.

"You're right." Santana glanced down at Sandy. He didn't look so bad… Until a blob of drool landed on her carpet. Gross. But Nicole… Nicole, Quinn's untouchable "work best friend." Nicole, with her naturally tanned skin and that luscious head of chocolate brown hair. Nicole, with her Australian accent and those secretary glasses she wore sometimes… "Fuck it," Santana muttered.

Quinn's lips curled up into a devious smile. "Do we have a deal?"

"Yes, yes," Santana huffed. "You know hot women are my weakness."

Quinn shook her head. "Hot unattainable women are your weakness," she corrected, "and, yes, I know that very well." Satisfied, Quinn bent down and pet Sandy lovingly. "Well, I have to go now, Sandy. I'll see you in a week. Have fun with Santana. I'm sure you two will get along just fine."

Santana rolled her eyes.

Quinn smirked at Santana one last time as she said, "Well, I better go pack my stuff and leave before Arthur kills me. I don't know why he needed me to make this trip with him on such short notice anyway."

"'Cause he's a horrible boss, Quinn," Santana said.

"Right." Quinn looked down at Sandy, smiling at his happy face, before heading for the door. "Take good care of him, Santana!" she called over her shoulder. Happily, she skipped out of Santana's apartment, satisfied that she had achieved what she had planned to from the very beginning. But she already knew that would happen. Sure, Santana was a bitch, but Quinn wasn't just a bitch—she was a very, very conniving one.

"Stop it, Sandy."

Sandy continued to gaze up at Santana, tongue hanging out of his mouth in eagerness.

"No, Sandy," Santana tried to say in that strict tone of voice that pet owners used with their pets…or mothers with their impossible children.

It was ineffective to say the least because here Sandy was, still waiting.

"Sandy," Santana said exasperatedly, "you're a dog. Dogs don't eat Parma ham. Parma ham is for humans." Santana pointed to herself. "See? Human."

But the dog did not budge.

Santana couldn't believe it. She had only spent two hours with the dog, and she was at a loss already. Giving up her attempts at communicating with an animal, Santana stuffed the pack of Parma ham back into her fridge, hoping it would make Sandy less restless.

It didn't work. Even as she did the most mundane thing—sitting on her couch watching trashy reality television (Santana loved a good bitch fight)—Sandy waited by her feet, panting with his tongue all over the place.

"What do you want, Sandy?" she asked.

Sandy panted some more.

"Stop looking at me, you stupid dog."

Sandy seemed unaffected by her offensive words.

"Ugh, for God's sake," Santana groaned. "What do you want?"

And then he reacted. Wagging his tail excitedly, Sandy sauntered over to the door and scratched at it before sending Santana a look of longing.

Now she understood. He wanted to go out.

But where would she take him? The park? Where all the homeless people and drug dealers hung out? No way was Santana Lopez hanging out with a bunch of below-average looking losers at the park. But Sandy was whining and scratching at the door, and, ugh, fine.

Santana walked Sandy around the park with a look of distaste on her face. It was all too much for Santana. She preferred the quietness of her apartment, and nature smelled kind of bad to be honest.

The people populating the park didn't help the situation. Santana scanned the park with a scowl as Sandy hopped along, dragging her to every crevice of the park. There were the homeless people, and there were the drug dealers. There were the gay men with their sweater-clad Chihuahuas, and there were the middle-aged women with their annoying babies. There were the not so impressive street performers, and—

Santana halted in her tracks as Sandy tugged her toward someone's chocolate Labrador. It was all good that Sandy wanted to make friends, but Santana wasn't in the mood for any small talk (when was she ever?), much less with a happy, loving dog owner. But Sandy persisted, and Santana's thin body couldn't put up much of a fight. Damn that dog.

As Sandy and the chocolate Labrador sniffed each other, Santana tried once last time to yank Sandy away. Then, a voice interrupted her struggle. "Your dog is so adorable, aren't you, doggie? Aren't you?"

Santana rolled her eyes at the woman's baby talk but offered a half-hearted smile anyway—that is, until she really looked at the woman. The tall, blonde, extremely hot woman.

The woman bent over and started petting Sandy enthusiastically, to which Sandy eagerly reacted, wagging his tail impossibly fast. Santana, though, was much less interested in Sandy's reaction than the bent over woman in front of her—specifically, the way the woman's shirt hung low and offered Santana a nice view of her, ahem, assets.

"What's his name?"

Santana subconsciously licked her lips as she continued staring down the woman's shirt.

"What's his name?" the woman asked again.

This time, Santana jolted out of her trance and met the woman's eyes—sharp, blue eyes that Santana had never seen anywhere else. Clearing her throat, Santana answered, "Sandy."

"Sandy?" The woman stood up straight and smiled down at Santana. "What a beautiful name."

"Yeah," Santana said with a shrug, frankly a bit dismayed by the woman's change in position. But then she held the woman's gaze, scrutinizing the woman's peculiar sapphire eyes and their mysterious glint. Santana couldn't quite place her finger on it, but that glimmer in the woman's riveting eyes mesmerized her in the strangest way.

"This is Sally," the woman told her, gesturing at her chocolate Labrador that was about the same size as Sandy.

"Oh," Santana said with fake interest, averting her heavy gaze, "cool."

The woman looked down at their dogs with a fond smile. Sandy and Sally were still sniffing and biting playfully at each other. "I think they like each other," she said.

Santana nodded. "Looks like it."

"So, you like dogs?"

Santana hesitated. She hated dogs. "Actually—"

"I love dogs," the woman felt the need to add.

A grin spread across Santana's face as she watched those blue eyes sparkle in excitement. "I mean, how could anyone not like them?" the woman asked, leaning down to brush her nose against her Labrador's.

"Well," Santana said with a shrug, about to offer a difference in opinion.

The woman glanced up at her. "Yeah?"

"Well," Santana continued, suddenly feeling the odd effects of those eyes again as soon as she met the woman's gaze, "exactly. How could they not?" Oh, God, what is wrong with me? No, Santana, this is not your fault. It's those damn eyes. They made you lie right to her face.

The woman giggled. "I'm glad we have something in common."

And she giggles too? Kill me already. "Um, hey," Santana said, clearing her throat and hopefully her distracted mind, "what's your name?"

"Brittany," the woman replied, extending her hand.

Good. Introductions. Santana could do introductions. Santana was an expert at introductions. With a well-practiced smirk, Santana grasped Brittany's soft hand into a firm handshake. "Nice to meet you, Brittany," she said. "I'm Santana."

After a brief chat, they decided to walk their dogs around the park together, seeing as how much they had in common: their love for dogs (false), their fondness of nature (false), their admiration for the street performers (false), and their friendly interest in each other (partly true—it was more like an intense sexual attraction on Santana's end).

Brittany, Santana learned (and immediately kept in mind), came to the park every day around four-thirty to walk her dog. And what a coincidence. Santana, Brittany learned, had just decided to make four-thirty her daily dog-walking time as well. Brittany smiled. They would be seeing a lot more of each other. Santana grinned. She sure hoped so.

Although Brittany's energy level did not seem to decrease one bit after their 40-minute walk, Santana's body had a different reaction. Her limbs ached, and the ever-sensitive Brittany noticed.

"Are you getting tired?" Brittany asked with a lopsided smile.

Santana glanced down at Brittany's long, toned legs that her jean shorts failed to hide. "No," she lied.

Brittany nodded. "Okay," she said, a hint of a smile still on her face. "Well," Brittany added after a moment, "I'm getting tired. Let's sit down at the dog run for a little bit."

Santana narrowed her eyes at Brittany; the spring in Brittany's steps begged to differ with her statement, but, tired as hell herself, Santana agreed.

They sat down at the benches and let their dogs run free, watching on with a proud smile. Well, Brittany did anyway. Santana was smiling too, but it was directed more to the woman next to her than her dog. Sandy, exhausted from chasing Sally around, slowed his steps and ambled around aimlessly. The next thing Santana knew, he squatted next to a pole and took a dump.

Santana immediately pulled a face, not having considered the prospect of Sandy crapping everywhere when she promised Quinn to take him in. Brittany seemed to notice Santana's expression of disgust because she immediately giggled to herself. "You know you're going to have to clean that up, right?" Brittany asked playfully.

"Uh, hell no."

Brittany frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not cleaning that shit up," Santana said defiantly.

"But…you have to."

"What?"

"I'm pretty sure cleaning up after your dog is a rule here." Brittany looked confused now. "Or is it not?"

"Uh…" What the hell did Santana know about dog rules? "I mean, sure it is. I was just, um, kidding with you."

"Oh."

"Well," Santana said more assertively as she got up from the bench. "Let me go do some cleaning." She began to walk toward Sandy—stupid, pooping Sandy—when she realized she had nothing to clean with.

"Hey, Santana?" Brittany called out, noticing Santana's empty handedness as well.

Santana spun around. "Yeah?"

"Don't you need, like, a paper bag or something?"

"Yes," Santana said unsurely. "Yes, I do."

Brittany grinned. "Here, I have one if you need it," she offered, pulling a paper bag out of her purse.

Santana smiled, walking back over to Brittany to take the bag. "Thank you, Brittany."

Brittany nodded. "No problem." Then she leaned back in her seat, watching in amusement as Santana cautiously approached the pile of dog crap.

The sky had turned grey, taking some joy out of Brittany's eyes. But they still shone as brilliantly as when Santana had first gazed into them. Brittany and Santana were in the middle of discussing Sandy's age ("How old is he?" "Old." "But how old?" "Like…a few years old…" "In dog years or human years?" "There's a difference?") when Brittany glanced at her watch and suddenly leapt out of her seat.

"Oh, crap, I'm going to be late!"

"Late for what?" Santana stood up as well, feeling a little disappointed that Brittany had to leave.

"For an audition," Brittany replied absentmindedly as she hooked the leash back onto Sally's collar. "C'mon, Sally," she cooed, trying to tug Sally away from Sandy, who she was apparently inseparable from now.

"What audition?" Santana asked.

"A dance audition," Brittany said. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Santana. Sorry I have to run out on you like this," she said, already walking briskly away with Sally in tow.

"Wait!" Santana called after her. "Will I see you again?"

Brittany spun her head around, whipping her blonde hair momentarily across her fair before it settled on her shoulders. She smirked at seeing Santana's eager face. "I hope so."

Well, that was a sight Santana wasn't going to forget anytime soon.

That evening, Santana walked Sandy home with an uncharacteristic spring in her step. The homeless people were almost tolerable, the street performers were almost mediocre, and the trees were almost pleasant. She looked down at the clumsy Golden Retriever trotting along beside her, and even Sandy was almost charming.

At least the dog wasn't all bad. Yeah, it shit everywhere and was super high maintenance, but Santana wouldn't have met Brittany if not for Sandy. So she supposed Sandy didn't completely suck.

When she got back to her apartment, there were ten messages on her answering machine, and seven of them were from Quinn.

"Hey, Santana. How's Sandy doing?"

"Hey, Santana, you're not picking up your cell. I'm worried. Are you handling Sandy okay?"

"Santana, where are you?"

"Santana, you better tell me Sandy's still alive."

"I'm going to fucking kill you if—"

Santana stopped the machine right there. Quinn's paranoid behavior was not helping matters at all. She didn't even bother to listen to the two other messages. Those girls had to stop calling her. Why was it so hard for them—heck, for all girls—to understand that Santana had moved on?

As Santana took the leash off Sandy and poured him a bowl of dog food she had just bought (she had specifically chosen from the "weight management" series—God knows Sandy needs some weight managing), her house phone rang. Not feeling much like talking to anyone, Santana proceeded to pour herself a glass of wine, waiting for the call to go to her answering machine.

"Santana, pick up the phone right now or else—"

"Or else what, Quinn?" Santana asked with a sigh. She perched the phone between her shoulder and her ear, taking a large sip from her glass.

"Thank God you answered. How is Sandy doing?"

"He's fine. Stop freaking out."

"Good."

"How's Vegas?"

"Eh… Hot."

Santana chuckled. "So, say… Wanna give me Nicole's number?"

"Um, no. I'm not stupid, Santana. You're going to disown Sandy the minute you get Nic's number."

"Is that what her friends call her? Nic?"

"Stop being a creep. You're not getting her number until I come home and see that Sandy's alive."

"Fine."

"Okay, I'll talk to you later, Santana."

"Bye, Quinn."

"Bye."

Santana hung up the phone and took another big gulp of wine, surveying her apartment with a forced objectivity. It was spacious, decorated everywhere with pricey artwork, littered with state-of-the-art technology, and situated in the middle of New fucking York.

But there were moments like this one when she couldn't help but feel there was too much space, when she couldn't give a crap about the art, when she found herself questioning her decision to purchase those thousand-dollar speakers that she never used as she gazed out her floor-length windows at the meanest, coldest, most heartless city in the world.