by Lorette C. Luzajic
I didn’t know how to tell you- I was the only human being in my family.
I took the more direct approach with the last woman I dated, and she changed her number.
I always knew I was different. I did not scratch whiskers onto my face with a Maybelline crayon, or cut holes in the back of my jeans for tails made out of old socks. My craft table was all popsicle sticks and finger paints when I was small, and decorative pottery later, not leather work for ears and snout masks.
It’s complicated, I told you the first four holidays of our love. I’d rather just spend time together.
Do you not get along with them, then? you asked.
We have our differences, I allowed.
You accepted my reticence for a long time. But after a while you started to wonder if I was ashamed of you somehow, or maybe I was still in the closet.
It’s not you, it’s me, I explained, then corrected myself. It’s not me, either. It’s them.
I thought you might get on quite nicely with Max, who was as funny and smart as you and fun to be around. But I didn’t know how to explain the way he curled into a fuzzy doughnut on the floor, licking his balls, even around guests.
My father was a different story altogether. He was a professor of anthropology and the two of you could have engaging conversations about Mesopotamian pottery shards and ancient idols. I knew he’d be very impressed by your antiquity poetry, too. But his was an imposing presence, in his very long suit and cloven hoofs for hands, with the spots he’d tattooed on permanently and the dozens of elongating neck rings. And good lord, the monocle.
On our third anniversary you wanted to make a big dinner and invite our folks to celebrate with us. I said I’d made reservations for two at a quiet bistro with a beautiful wine list.
I’m starting to think you were raised by wolves or something, you said.
Your choice of phrases opened the door, so I took my chances on a way in.
Yes, something like that, I said.
The scene in “Thriller” surfaced to my mind, where Michael tells his girl, I’m not like other guys, just before he starts to twist and morph into a werewolf.
Not wolves, I said. My father is a giraffe. My brother thinks he is a dog. Both sisters are dragons, but Gorgandr is also an elf. Mother is a puma. My aunt is half horse.
Oh, you said. Your face registered a few different expressions as you tried to absorb what I was telling you. You were pausing, waiting for the punchline. But there wasn’t one.
Look, I said. I tried to tell you.
Once we had watched a documentary on therianthropic rock art in Botswana and Australia. You pointed out how modern monster movies were actually an ancient muse. The stories of the gods were all about transformation and anthropomorphism, you said. You were fascinated by the Egyptian dog gods and by the sirens and minotaurs nearby.
Humans are incredibly imaginative, you’d said excitedly, jotting down notes on San horse-men art for your poetry. It was probably one reason why I was drawn to you. You saw the strange maddening themes of my childhood in perspective, as part of human cosmology, as inspiration for literature.
That’s one way of putting it, I’d said, almost ready to open up, but then just leaving it there.
I wasn’t really sure how to soften the blow after my declaration about dragons.
Dinner would be a drag, I said finally. Twigs and leafy greens for Dad, skunk and rabbit for Mother. Max will eat anything, especially fish mush. Gorgandr prefers foraged berries, but Sapphire likes wild boar.
What about pizza? you asked after a pause. There’s a gourmet place across town that has everything. I could get a vegan one with arugula and strawberries, and one with anchovies and game. Does your aunt like apples?
I sighed. I couldn’t believe it was going to happen, finally, and wondered what would become of us afterwards. As long as we get our favourite, I said. Spicy sausage with black olives, and Shiraz.
Lorette C. Luzajic writes prose poetry and flash fiction. She is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by art.
Emerge Literary Journal 