My Dinosaur Life

“Not that I am special, not that you’re some work of art.”

(Her )

The first thing I notice is his hair.

He’s sitting alone, and well, he’s alone in the whole restaurant, aside from a few waiters.

Apparently we’re the only two freaks in the city that have a craving for pizza at ten-thirty on a Monday morning.

So maybe that’s not the whole reason I’m here.

I stopped at my parents’ place right after I got in from the airport two hours ago.

I knew if I stayed I’d have to explain myself to them – why I’m back, how long I’m staying, etc.

And I can’t deal with that right at this second, so I opted for pizza.

Pizza doesn’t interrogate anyone.

But like I was saying, his hair- it’s weird and fascinating at the same time.

…and it’s probably safe to say he hasn’t washed it in a few days.

To each his own, I suppose?

His glasses are square and a bright reddish color, and seem to settle on his face perfectly, as if they belong there and nowhere else.

His fingers tap the table exactly two times every four seconds.

He glances around, fingers tapping neurotically, hair defying gravity as is.

I mean to walk past him to get a table near the window, but I find myself slowing down as I approach him, my feet stopped as if I’ve stepped in a patch of quicksand located right next to his table.

He looks up at me, a hint of confusion playing in his brown eyes.

For reasons unknown to me -

I sit down across from him.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he says back, although he’s still confused.

The waiter comes by, asking for my drink order.

“Do I…”

I know he’s about to try and figure out where he knows me from, so I cut him off.

I was on the corner of the front page of People last week, and he doesn’t need to know that.

“Who are you?” I ask, because I’m curious.

He just looks like someone.

“Depends on who you’re asking,” he smartly replies. “Who are you?”

“I’m…Annie.” He nods politely, and I frown, displeased. “You shouldn’t believe me so easily, you know,” I inform him. “What if I told you I was a queen? A serial killer?”

He blinks at me blankly, not answering for a few seconds.

“I guess I was taking your word for it,” he replies finally.

“Mm…” I reply vaguely, studying him as I sip my diet soda.

“I know your face from somewhere. What’s your real name?” he finally builds up the courage to ask.

“Anna-Lisa,” I say truthfully.

“No,” he replies, shaking his head.

“No?” I repeat, raising my eyebrows.

“I like Annie better,” he decides. “My name is Justin, by the way,” he adds. “In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” I answer, but only because I’m more interested in other things about him, things deeper than his name.

He doesn’t respond, just looks down at the menu.

“Justin?” I ask. He looks up.

“Yeah, Annie?”

I swallow a mouthful of diet soda before continuing.

“Do you ever feel like you’re drowning?”

He’s confused.

We talk about something else.

When we’re done – hours later, I think, I give him my number, just on a whim.

And I’m not expecting anything, but I feel pretty damn good about coming home.

About him.