I don’t remember drawing the picture, the self-portrait from twenty years ago. When I find it, in an old scrapbook, accompanied by other strange drawings and glued macaroni art made in kindergarten, I can’t help but crack up.

“This is me”, it says underneath an oblong creature with laughably short limbs and abnormally large, mismatched eyes. The paper is green and the lines of the pen black. “I’m like a hot dog”.

I think to myself, and say to my mum, still shaking with laughter, what a strange way to view oneself. A hot dog.

The resemblance is undeniable, so I suppose it all adds up in a way, but why draw myself like that in the first place? Did I really like hot dogs at the time? Had I just eaten one the day before? I suddenly remember my dad telling me that when I was two, they’d given me a hot dog to snack on. And instead of taking a small bite to chew on, a bite that fit the mouth of a two-year-old, I’d shoved half the thing in there, bitten it in two and swallowed the piece whole. Maybe it stuck with me, in some strange way, and made its way into my artistic expressions.

I find myself preoccupied by the drawing the following days. Constantly thinking about the shape of a hot dog and how it might have related to my self image at the time. Start thinking about it as an alter ego of sorts, one that I admittedly don’t understand but have, nevertheless, assigned some greater meaning. Hot Dog. It’s on my mind when I make breakfast in the morning, when I take a bathroom break in the afternoon, when I lie down in bed at night and drift to sleep.

And then one night, I don’t drift off. I lie awake for an hour and a half, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Hot Dog, and what I want most of all is to get out of bed, put on my coat and weave through the quiet streets of downtown. The streets that don’t have pubs and restaurants, clubs or art galleries or tourist shops. Just houses with sleeping people and dark gardens.

So, I do, eventually, even though there’s work in the morning and I have no real business running around town in the middle of the night. But it’s nice, being outside like this, feeling the slow and humming energy of an empty city. Scotch mist cooling my face and padding the gentle sounds of the night.

I meet no one on my walk through the city but spot the occasional light in a window. Soft yellow, dark red, bright fluorescent. I wonder what they’re doing, the people with lights on, whether they haven’t gone to bed yet or just woke up from a bad dream. Or because of a sound. Or because hunger was gnawing at their stomach. Maybe somebody’s having a hot dog.

The thought of it makes my mouth water and I realise I haven’t had a hot dog in ages. Immediately, I veer off my unplanned track, towards the city centre, where the lights are the tiniest bit brighter and the sounds a smidge louder, where the pond is full of sleeping birds and the streets are made of cobble stones. When I get to the hot dog stand, my feet have gotten damp from the rain and a small shudder travels through my body. I’ll go straight home after this, I think to myself, picturing my bed snug against the window – I can lie and watch the rain if I’m still unable to sleep.

It’s not until I’m at the ordering window that I realise I know the guy working, that we went to primary school together, ages and ages ago.

Well, hello! I say, in the way you do when you know someone but really don’t, and then go on to ask if we didn’t go to the same school. Riley? I draw from somewhere deep in my brain, unsure of its correctness.

Yeah, yeah, you remember, he says laughing, doesn’t seem to be bothered by the unexpected encounter, like some people might be.

In for a late-night snack, I see, you live around here? He gestures around but doesn’t allow me the space to comment on it before moving on.

So, what can I get you?

You know, I swallowed half a hot dog once, I tell him instead of answering. I was only two, so it was quite a feat, really.

Did you now.

By the look on his face, he thinks I’m insinuating something, which I might have been if it were Friday or Saturday and I’d had a few but couldn’t be further from my mind right now. Still, when he asks if I want to see the inside of the stand, tells me I can serve the next customer, I gravitate towards yes.

I don’t suppose you get many this time of night, I ask as he gives me his hand and hauls me up the two steps that lead inside.

Occasionally.

I guess I could just serve myself then, I say, walking past him to the counter where condiments and onions, fresh and fried, are lined up beside dozens of packets of hot dog buns and a gently steaming hot dog water in a big tub. In the water, five hot dogs are floating, looking lonely, ready to be fished out and eaten.

That’s me, I think and chuckle to myself. I’m like a hot dog.

I’ve actually been thinking a lot about hot dogs these past few days, I say to Riley, not taking my eyes of the ones floating in front of me. Behind me, I can feel him shifting, probably contemplating whether he should make a move and when exactly the appropriate time would be, thinking about whether he’s about to have sex in a hot dog stand with a girl he used to go to school with. Meanwhile, all I can think about is that I really want to get in the hot dog water. What a stupid thought, I think, but can’t let go of it. I reach my hand out to test the water, just to see how it might feel to plunge into it, if I were small enough. If I really was a hot dog and not just Hot Dog.

Oohh, careful! Riley says and grabs my hand gently before it reaches the surface of the water. It’s nearly 70 degrees in there, need to use tongs. He picks up the ones lying next to the tub and clips them a couple of times before handing them to me.

Of course, I say, smiling shyly, as if I’d made a rookie mistake and not an intentional decision.

When I have a hot dog in a bun with ketchup and fried onions, I turn sideways to face him.

Haven’t had a hot dog for a while, I say, inspecting the one I have in my hand, my mouth watering, stomach rumbling.

This one’s on me then, he says coyly, moving closer as I take a big bite.

The softness of the bread feels nice in my mouth, and the mix of ketchup and fried onions is exactly what I had anticipated, but when my teeth hit the hot dog itself, I instantly get the feeling that I’ll need to throw up. Unsure of what to do, I stand frozen for a while, holding the hot dog by my lips, not chewing the bite I took. But it’s weird, standing like that, with him looking at me like he wants to eat me, just as I had wanted to eat the hot dog. So, I chew, slowly, try not to make a face, and when I’ve finally managed to swallow, I carefully put the hot dog down on the table and don’t push Riley away.

I wash my mouth in his, ridding myself of the foul feeling of biting into the firm and springy meet. Try not to dwell on my disappointment, take comfort in the fact that to him, I am the hot dog. Or at the very least, the hot dog bun.