We were once the happiest of couples. A family unto ourselves, as I recall. Just she and I. Winged serpents in love. Two of God’s more extreme creatures, content, breathing a small, rivetingly scorching romantic force of fire.
Oh, I know this sounds so trite. Dragon love stories gone wrong are a dime a dozen. But this was our tale; raw, lumpy, full of jagged little trump swatches of beautiful bile.
I wish we could have remained a scaly twosome, ever gruesomely in love.
The bump and the grind of our mutuality shook the rooftops. We set a standard most could not match.
And then, our predictable downfall. We knew the wickedly high failure rate for Dragon prophylactics. Made of second-rate rubber grown near the Serpent’s Wall in Kiev, they have limited durability. But Deirdre and I didn’t give a hoot.
“Oh, Donald, I want you,” she pleaded. “If we wait for science to develop a flame-proof condom, I’ll go absolutely berserk.”
Strangely, she was more hormonally charged than I. But it mattered not. I was infertile.
But we were not satisfied. “I want a tiny dragon, my love.” She it with such ferocity. And so we scoured the black market. Finally, we scored. The egg has arrived. Golden. Glistening. But, not of our kind. It is a Chinese dragon. It will be wingless. It will be odd. Our baby will not look like us.
“I don’t care,” Deirdre repeats, over and over. “I am a lucky female. It will be ours.”
I know what awaits us. Friends and foes can be so cruel. Nevertheless, the smile on her very rough lips is worth it.
This imagining, somewhat outside of my comfort zone, though I continually find that zone to be elasticized, is my contribution this week to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction challenge #23: Dragons’ egg.