My Dinosaur Life

“I’m torn in opposite directions.”

(Her)

“Oh come on, what the fuck is she doing?” I demand.

“Fucking idiot,” Justin agrees, shoving a handful of buttery popcorn into his mouth.

I groan loudly at the next scene, while Justin snorts.

“Could the blood be any faker?” I roll my eyes. He laughs in agreement.

The phony Hollywood excuse for blood is a gorgeous bright crimson.

“I know. And if you’re going to impale someone, you could at least do it with some class,” he shakes his head in agreement.

“Goddamn. This is bullshit!” I declare at the end. He grunts his concurrence through a mouthful of popcorn. “Put the next one in,” I prod, nudging him in the side.

“Can you say plot holes?” he says, rolling his eyes but obliging and getting off the couch to switch the VHS tapes.

“I’ll make more popcorn,” I announce, getting up to walk the few feet over to the kitchen.

“Betty, let’s just make our own slasher film, okay?” he calls from the living room as I put the bag in the microwave.

“What did you say?” I ask, confused, appearing in the doorway to look at him.

Something he says throws me off, but I don’t know what it is.

“I said, let’s make our own slasher film, Annie. Okay?” he repeats, frowning at the confusion on my face.

“Yeah,” I agree, shaking off my uncertainty to smile at him.

He smiles back, satisfied.

I must be hearing things again.

Maybe it’s the medication.

The microwave beeps, and he rewinds the next movie for us while I fill the bowl with more artery-clogging move-theater butter popcorn.

Delicious.

“Why did you tell me your name was Annie?” he asks, suddenly, when I join him back on the couch.

“I don’t know. It’s simple. I don’t like complications. I have too many already.”

“Complications?” he repeats, his tone asking his question for him.

“Everything’s so fucking complicated Justin. Even my name. It’s fucking stupid. Two first names? With a dash in between? And a middle name, too? Katharine. I don’t know what my parents were smoking when they named me,” I rant, shoving buttery popcorn into my mouth so that I won’t scowl.

I don’t even want to get started on my world-wide rockstar status.

“Anna-Lisa Katharine Avery,” he states, sounding it out as he pulls me closer to him to kiss the top of my head.

I like my name better when he says it.

I grumble incoherently, being stubborn.

“My middle name is Courtney,” he offers.

I look at him, squinting to study his sober expression.

“You’re lying to make me feel better,” I accuse finally. He shakes his head.

“I wish I were.”

“Justin Courtney Pierre,” I say, sounding it out on my tongue. “I kind of like it,” I tease, nudging him in the side.

“I should not have told you that,” he remarks, shaking his head at himself.

We watch the next movie in near-silence with a few random bursts of laughter at the really stupid scenes.

“I’m going on tour soon, you know,” I inform him.

We hadn’t really talked about if this is going anywhere, or what happens next.

My little stunt is soon to be over –

My bandmates tell me I need to stop fucking around and get back to work.

Everyone wants to know where I am.

I’ve disappeared long enough.