Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Istare at the man on the other side of the counter.
The fact that I have a fucking dragon in front of me, and he is what is commanding my attention, says a lot.
Messy black hair falls around his face, covering his forehead in wayward curls and waves.
His eyes, an intense blue, stare at me as he, again, repositions the…
thing in his arms. His nose is proud and straight, his lips full.
His cheekbones are pronounced enough to tell me he is hella in shape under that – I think it’s a robe, maybe a cloak.
His hands and what I can see of his neck are covered in various swirls and dips of ink. He looks vaguely familiar.
He remains silent, staring at me. Oh. He’s waiting for an acknowledgement.
The reptile is staring at me, too. It has to be an iguana.
“Yes?” I answer.
He just stares at me. He’s ridiculously hot, but this is getting awkward. He’s absolutely silent.
“That’s a nice iguana.”
He continues to deadpan. “It’s a dragon.”
Desperately seeking some semblance, some shred of sanity, I scoff and shake my head. “No, that is clearly a cold iguana.”
My logical intrusive thoughts whisper It is 70 degrees outside, ma’am. No iguana is going to be that shade of blue right now. Also, bitch, you know what an iguana looks like and THAT IS NOT A FUCKING IGUANA.
Do intrusive thoughts usually laugh maniacally? Mine just did. Should I be concerned?
I take a minute to examine the… iguana.
It appears to be various shades of blue, with four, relatively short legs, a long tapered tail and a long, sinuous neck. All in all, it appears to be the size of a large cat or puppy… or, a small dragon.
Racking my brain for anything I may have ever read about iguanas, I vaguely land on something about petting them on their “third eye.” I tentatively reach out and stroke two fingers over the flat spot on its forehead, where the eye would be.
Consider my flabbers gasted when the creature closes its eyes and leans into my touch.
Are reptiles usually happy to be stroked? I feel like the answer is no.
The man watches the exchange. “Well, she definitely seems to like you.”
Why do I suddenly feel like an experiment he’s trying to puzzle out?
I shake my head. “Sir, we’re in the Midwest. Land of corn and football and…
and tailgating. Iguanas aren’t just found wandering wild around here.
We have snakes, but that’s about it. As far as scaly things go, anyway.
We– I mean, we obviously have other animals around here.
” Duh. Obviously. Why the hell am I so flustered?
He looks down at the iguana wanna-be. “This is a dragon.” He enunciates the word carefully, like I’m hard of hearing or he’s concerned I have a brain injury. It’s hard to tell which.
“They come from everywhere, depending on the type. She, based on her color, comes from the Mid-Lands. See how her color is blue? That means it’s warming up in her homelands and she’s working to stay cool.
In the colder months, she turns a golden orange to let everyone know she is building herself up to keep warm. ”
He sounds like he is spouting facts, even when all of his information is incorrect.
Just like a man. Confidence over correction, every time.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” I say, gently, because who wants to incite a mad man who thinks the random swamp puppy he found is a dragon, “but that is not a dragon. I wasn’t born last night and, really, if you aren’t interested in buying a book, I think you need to go. ” I point to the door.
He glances around, seemingly just realizing where he is. He looks dubiously at the iguana, who is still butting its head against my scritching fingers and appears to be purring.
“I would be happy to purchase a book, but… I’m not sure releasing her in such an environment is wise.”
Holy shit. He really thinks this lizard breathes fire.
“Well, I’m sure it’ll be fine, if we close the door so she doesn’t run out into the street. She can’t really do much damage, so I’m happy to help find something for you to read if you wanna go ahead and put her down for a minute?”
He hesitates, but I remain firm and step back. With a shrug, he places his tiny baby on the floor.
Where she immediately takes off to the nearest donation box and sets it aflame.
To my absolute horror, Sir Fine-Britches just laughs.
The fucking bookstore is on fire and he’s laughing.
Please tell me this isn’t my life.
“I told you!” he says, clearly delighted. “She must be yours!”
And clearly, she really is a fucking dragon.