My Dinosaur Life

”I didn’t know I’d get caught in the middle.”

(Him)

1…2…3…4…

I fidget in my seat to get more comfortable.

I tap my fingers exactly twice every four seconds at the lull in conversation.

1…2…3…4…

“How are you feeling today, Justin?”

“I met someone,” I inform him, choosing to ignore the overused question.

“Oh?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I used to give a fuck about what he thought about me, but now I could give a fuck less.

1…2…3…4…

If he doesn’t analyze me, then I know I’ll just overanalyze myself, so I might as well let the man do his job.

This way, he gets paid, and I get to keep my friends and family happy at the same time.

“She might be insane,” I add.

“Why do you say that?” he asks, and I shrug. “What’s her name?”

1…2…3…4…

“Annie.”

I notice I’m smiling.

Like a fucking weirdo.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything about it.

He keeps asking me things about her, but I don’t know much at all.

Not besides the facts that she likes wearing sunglasses and testing people.

1…2…3…4…

“You seem to have progressed well since the beginning, Justin. I’ll see you the same time next week.”

What he means by “progressed well” is he’s glad I don’t show up high or drunk or drugged up to sessions like I did the first few times.

What he means by “progressed well” is I haven’t relapsed in almost six months.

Two years of therapy and rehab before that with occasional minor fuck-ups isn’t so bad, I guess, but it’s nothing to write home about, either.

Happy anniversary, Justin.

You poor, fucked up bastard.

I give him a polite “thank you” and leave.

If he knew what really goes on in my mind part of the time-

Well, then he wouldn’t have to ask half those crazy stupid motherfucking questions.

I dig in my pants pockets for my car keys, and find the napkin with her name and number scrawled on it in her near-unintelligible writing.

I stuff it back in my pockets for safekeeping and pull out of the parking lot to head home.

I resolve to finally call her when I get home; I’ve dragged it out long enough that it’s starting to make me anxious.

I’m thinking about her so much that when I see her walking on the sidewalk, I’m convinced I’m just hallucinating, which, let’s face it, wouldn’t be that improbable if it were over two years ago.

“Anna-Lisa!” I call, after rolling down the windows.

She continues walking, and I get the feeling she’s ignoring her name for some reason.

“Annie!” I try. She stops and looks around as I pull up to the curb beside her. “Do you need a ride?”

She doesn’t say anything for about half a minute, and I’m feeling more and more idiotic by the second, thinking maybe it’s not even her, or maybe she doesn’t even remember who the hell I am.

“You haven’t called me yet,” she remarks, idly, unmoving. Her mouth is relaxed, no smile, smirk, or even a frown.

She’s wearing those big sunglasses again, so I can’t really tell if she’s mad, amused, indifferent, or anything at all.

I feel heat creeping up my neck and I start tapping my fingers anxiously.

“But I’m going to,” I immediately blurt out.

1…2…3…4…

She studies me, and then decides to get in my crappy car.

“Where were you headed?” she asks, closing the door.

“Nowhere. I was driving home from my therapist.”

I realize what I’ve said and want to punch myself for letting that detail slip, but she doesn’t seem to notice. That or she doesn’t care either way. “How about you?”

“Filling prescriptions,” she answers, shaking a small brown paper bag at me.

“Oh.”

1…2…3…4…

Then we’re silent and I open my mouth to ask her where exactly I’m supposed to be driving to.

“Look,” she abruptly points out as we inch past the matinee theater, which advertises a marathon of Woody Allen films.

We enter the lobby to find that the last movie of the evening is none other than Annie Hall.

“Well, la di da,” I remark without thinking, forgetting all about my nervous habit.

“La di da, la di da,” she finishes automatically.

“Do you want to go in?” I ask, hopefully.

“I knew I liked you,” she states, grinning and leading me to the ticket window.

I don’t know if this counts as our first date, or second date, or anything resembling a date at all.

All I know is that I should have called her sooner because when the movie ends, I find myself wanting to drag out the seconds with her as we go back to the car.

“What time is it?” she asks, settling in the passenger

“Um…almost six. Why?”

“Fuck!” she exclaims. “It’s nothing,” she reassures me, glancing at the startled look on my face. “Shit!”

“Uh…are you okay?” I ask hesitantly.

1…2…3…4…

“Yeah,” she replies distractedly. “I do have to get home, though,” she adds.

“Oh,” I say, disappointed. She gives me her address.

It’s a fairly short drive, to my dismay.

“Annie?” I ask, just as she opens the door.

She stops and stares at me, mouth relaxed and waiting.

Actually, I can’t tell if she’s staring; she put her sunglasses back on as soon as we left the theater.

My throat is dry and I realize I don’t have anything to say.

1…2…3…4…

She glances at my tapping fingers and smiles.

She leans closer to press a kiss near my ear.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says, her cool breath hitting my cheek.

She’s out of the car and walking up the sidewalk in seconds.

I think I’ll call her when I get home.