My Dinosaur Life

“She is the queen of anarchy, I am the only one who cares. I met her in Minnesota, over some pizza and diet soda.”

(Him)

The first thing I notice about her is her eyes.

Rather, the fact that she’s wearing sunglasses to cover them.

Her fingernails are painted a shocking turquoise that contrasts with her bright blonde hair as she carelessly runs her hand through it.

We’re the only two here in my favorite pizza place, on a Monday morning, in Minneapolis, in Minnesota.

In the United States, North America, on Earth, the universe, etc., etc.

She stops at my table.

I stare.

“Hi,” she says. I continue to stare in confusion as she sits down across from me.

“Hi,” I reply.

We talk about things – I don’t know what, exactly, half the time, but we talk.

I know I’ve seen her face before, but I can’t figure it out for the life of me.

“Do you ever feel like you’re drowning?” she eventually asks, sometime after inviting herself to my table for one and introducing herself as “Annie.”

I stare blankly, confused while I try to piece together what she’s asked.

“I…what do you mean by that?”

She studies me intently, or at least that’s what I imagine her to be doing behind her sunglasses.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

The waiter comes back and we order.

“So…what do you do?”

She doesn’t say anything for about half a minute, looking as if she’s debating answering the question.

“You really wanna know?” she asks, a devious smirk molding her lips. She leans forward in her seat, and I find myself instinctively doing the same. She finally takes off the sunglasses to look me in the eyes.

They’re dark and sharp and strange.

And twinkling with something I can’t really place.

“Um…sure,” I mumble uncertainly, and she beckons me closer with her electric-tipped fingers. She gives a conspiratorial sideways glance to the counter, as if to see if the waiters are listening.

But they’re engrossed in their own conversation; they could care less about the innocent ramblings of an odd pair. They don’t care about our conversation that doesn’t mean anything to anyone but us at this moment.

“My plan is to overthrow the government and eventually take over the world after causing a state of mass chaos,” she states in a low voice, and for half a second I think she’s serious.

Or crazy.

…or seriously crazy.

But then her solemn expression is replaced by that smirk again as she waits for my answer and I can only give her a blank stare.

“That’s called anarchy,” I finally inform her. “If you succeed.”

She laughs.

“Are you going to turn me in?” her dark eyes glitter with the continuation of our dumb joke.

Her eyes are still striking me. They’re so brown they’re almost black, and they starkly contrast against her pale skin and blonde hair.

“Not if you offer me a high position of power in your superior form of government,” I say, reasoning. She smirks again, satisfied with my answer, leaning back in her chair.

“Deal.”

Our pizza comes, and even though I hate talking with strangers, it’s as if I already know her.

“What are you into?”

“Pain,” she replies, and once again, I can’t really tell if she’s serious or not. “What are you into?”

“Robots,” I blurt out without thinking. She quirks an eyebrow in amusement, and I want to punch myself for saying it. “Music,” I revise.

“Now there’s something we can talk about,” she smiles, not smirks, this time.

I don’t realize how much time has passed when we finish talking and eating, all I know is that it feels like seconds.

There’s something so tangible about her.

She’s so…real.

So real that I’m half-convinced I’ve imagined this whole pizza place scenario, because that’s the kind of thing I’d do.

“Tell you what…” she says, after we pay the check, while I’m trying to think of a reason for her to stay, or maybe a clever way of asking to see her again. “I’ll save you some trouble.”
She takes a pen from her purse and scrawls her name and number on a napkin. “Honestly, I don’t think you can handle me, Justin. Not many can. But if you think you can, well…give me a call.”

With that, she’s gone, glasses back on, and blonde hair whipping behind her as the door swings shut behind her.

I don’t believe in soulmates, but she might be crazy enough to be mine.

The neurotic, pessimistic 90% of me is already thinking there’s no future in her dark, sparkling eyes.

The remaining 10% is telling me to go for it, telling me that I deserve to be happy as a dinosaur, too.