Flirtasaurus

by Erin Mallon

“We should bust out a duet sometime.”

  “Any time.”

  He looks down at our assembly line of invitations. “Hey. We’re slacking.”

  “You’re right. You’re right.”

  “That’s not a phrase I expected to hear from you.”

  “What. You’re right?”

  “Yeah,” he says with a smirk.

  “Geez, you really think I’m a bitch, huh?”

  “No way. Why would you say that?” He seems genuinely surprised at my comment.

  “Most guys do.”

  “Then most guys are wrong. Calliope, I think you’re cool as hell.”

  What do I say to that?

  “You keep me guessing. And you have a real way with words. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “All the time. Usually when they can’t keep up.”

  “Oh, I can keep up.”

  “Can you?”

  “Oh, yeah. Don’t you worry about that.”

  Is it me, or did the energy in the room just shift in a major way? It suddenly feels like we’re flirting. Is he flirting?

  Oh shoot, did I say that out loud?

  “Well, yeah. I’m trying to.”

  “Trying to what?”

  “Flirt. With you.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Maxie Ford!”

  “Cramp roll!”

  “Time step!”

  “Double time step!”

  “Triple time step!”

  And just like that, we’re drunk and tap dancing. Well, he’s tap dancing. I’m drunk. Or at least pretty close to it. We’re about two hours into this impromptu date and… Wait a second, is this a date? It’s certainly starting to feel that way. How do I feel about that?

  I’m sitting on the floor, shouting out dance moves, and he is executing them… perfectly. It’s hilarious and impressive and… really surprising.

  “Alright, alright, that’s enough. Your turn,” he says, a little out of breath.

  “No way! I have an injured toe.”

  “Oh damn, I completely forgot. Let me see.”

  “My toes?”

  “Yup! Socks off.”

  “No way!”

  “Why not? I told you, I did ka-ra-tay! I have lots of experience assessing injured toes.”

  “Dude, you are not assessing my toes.”

  “But I thought you were used to being one of the guys, dude! Surely, ‘one of the guys’ isn’t shy about showing another guy her piggy toes?”

  If there is one thing I am not, it’s shy. I whip my socks off in record time if for no other reason than to prove him wrong.

  “Put ’em here.”

  He sits on the floor in front of me, pats his lap, and reaches out his hand.

  “Uhhhhh. Put ’em where now?”

  “Here. In my hand.”

  What the hell is happening right now?

  Before I can second-guess myself, I slip my foot into his waiting hand. It’s warm and cozy and the tiniest bit rough. He takes the fingers of his opposite hand and taps them gently against my toes as if he’s playing a slow, gentle song over piano keys.

  Be cooooool. Act like this sort of thing happens to you all the time.

  “That hurt?” he asks, his voice sounding a bit softer and raspier than usual.

  “Nope,” I breathe.

  “Yeah, you may have a bit of bruising tomorrow, but it seems you’ll be just fine.”

  “Cool. Thanks, doc.”

  I figure we’re done, so I move to pull my foot away, but he responds by cupping both of his warm hands around it and—good lord above—he starts to massage it.

  “What are you…?”

  “Is this okay?”

  “Um. Yeah. That’s… yeahhhhh.”

  My head tips back, and my eyes fall closed, which is surprising.

  When I look back up, he’s watching my foot while he massages it, like he’s looking directly into my foot’s eyes. My foot eyes. The, uh—the eye of my foot. Damn, the beer is getting to me. I’m a lightweight on a usual day—much to my embarrassment—but on a day like today when I’ve only had a breakfast sandwich and a string cheese? Yeah, on a day like today, I’m hopeless.

  “So. What would you be doing right now if you weren’t fraternizing with the sexy astronomer at your new place of employment?”

  “Whoa. Hello, confidence!”

  “Yeah, you’re right. That felt really weird to say.”

  “No, it’s not that I disagree. I was just surprised that you would… because you’re totally… I mean, I’m sure most people would agree that—”

  Don’t be the girl who babbles and interrupts herself, Calliope. It’s weak.

  “Um. Anyway. To answer your question, if I weren’t fraternizing with you… oh, sidebar: do you know if we’re allowed to fraternize?”

  “Huh. I think so?”

  “The contract is nebulous at best, right? Though, in fairness, I only skimmed it on the stairway up here because your nuggets became very distracting and…” There I go, interrupting myself again. “I’ll look into it further and let you know, okay? Stay tuned, soldier.”

  “Okay.” He salutes.

  “For now, I think we can both agree it’s best to be on the safe side and keep this little dalliance between you and me, yeah?”

  “Would you call this a dalliance, though? We haven’t exactly dallied.”

  I choose to ignore that question and plow ahead to the one I can actually answer.

  “On a typical night with no astronomer fraternization, I would most likely be sitting on my thrift store couch, drinking Yoo-hoo and watching Friends while working on my laptop.”

  “Really? Friends is—”

  “Kind of before my time. I know. But I told you. I like old things.”

  “No, I was going to say Friends is—”

  “Extremely problematic, I know.”

  “Do you always assume you know what other people are going to say?”

  “First, how in the world can the show be set in New York City of all places, and the six main characters, all the supporting characters, all the guest stars, and all the extras for chrissakes are white? It’s lazy and irresponsible casting for sure, but it was the 90s, and things are changing on that front. I mean, hopefully, right?

  “Next, what are the chances that Monica, an assistant chef who never seems to be chef-ing, and Rachel, who is a terrible waitress in a coffee shop and constantly sitting down on the job, could afford that absolutely massive open-concept kitchen slash two-bedroom apartment with a balcony? Also, I don’t know what landlord in their right mind wouldn’t flip their shit at their choice of paint colors. Sure, those blue and purple cabinets are fun, but ladies? That security deposit ain’t ever coming back.

  “And are we really supposed to believe that these six always, and I mean always, get the choice plush seating area at Central Perk while all the other peons sit at tiny high-top tables in the background? Nah, not buying it, guys.

  “Moving right along, and I think we can all agree on this, the decision to have female cis actor Kathleen Turner play Chandler’s drag queen father has not aged well. Nor have the fat jokes aimed at teenage Monica, the cracks about Ben having ‘two mommies,’ or the gay jokes perpetually aimed at any male character who wasn’t macho enough in the eyes of the producers. However, here’s the real question I want to pose: Why are Rachel’s, and often Monica’s, nipples so damn pointy? And poor Phoebe! What? Was she not worthy of visible nipple objectification like the other two?

  “But my biggest issue of all has to be the treatment of Ross and the way his ‘friends’ are constantly mocking his clearly superior job. I mean, come on! They’re all bouncing between being unemployed and working jobs they hate—besides Chandler, I suppose, who works as what, an IT procure
ments manager?—yet they feel completely justified making fun of the scientist, the paleontologist who is devoting his life to uncovering the mysteries and magnificence of the past! It’s complete and utter bunk! But it brings me comfort to watch that shitshow. Not sure why.”

  He lets that all sink in for a moment.

  “Fair enough.”

  Gosh, he’s a really good listener.

  I watch him rub my foot in silence.

  “I, uh… I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you in the planetarium this morning.”

  “Would you say you were harsh, though?”

  He tries to deliver this question seriously, but immediately starts laughing.

  “We both know I was. In my defense, it was partly because of my bruised ego after being stood up and—”

  “I told you, I didn’t stand you up. I waited for you for—”

  “An hour. I know. Thank you again for that. Very sweet of you. Lemme rephrase then. Burp! Oops. I burped. Beer makes me burp.”

  “Beer makes everyone burp.”

  “I haven’t heard you burp once, and you’re on, what, your ninth glass?

  “My ninth glass?! No, Calliope, this is my third. And I’ve been squelching my belching in an attempt to be a gentleman.”

  “Fuck being a gentleman. Let ’er rip!”

  “Burrrrrrrrrrrrp!”

  “There he goes! Don’t you feel better now?”

  “I do actually, thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  He taps my foot in that universal sign of “all done,” then reaches his hand out for the other one, which I gladly provide.

  How the hell did we get here?

  “So. I was harsh this morning, partly because of my mistaken belief that you stood me up, but mostly because your people killed my people, and that presentation made me feel a bit crazy.”

  His head does one of those comic double takes as though he’s a cartoon character. But he seems genuinely shook.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You should be.”

  “Let me clarify. I didn’t mean ‘sorry’ like I was apologizing. I meant sorry more like ‘what the hell are you talking about?’”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t think that I do. Who are my people, and whom did they kill?”

  “Nice use of the word whom.”

  “I thank you.”

  “But glorious grammar isn’t going to get you off the hook for this one.”

  “Are you talking about the Jews and the Catholics? Because if that’s the case, I think we can make a strong argument that it was actually your people who killed my people, so—”

  “You’re Jewish?”

  “Emphasis on the -ish.”

  “Gotcha. But no, I’m not talking about the Jews and the Catholics. ”

  “Then I literally have no idea what you’re—”

  “Your asteroid friends killed my dinos!” I say with a bit too much force, I’m guessing. Yup, my buzz can now officially be promoted to drunk.

  “Ohhhhhhhhhh. Okay. Yeah, I guess that’s… Wait. You’re mad at me for that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Huh.”

  He takes a moment to consider his response. And then he shocks the hell out of me.

  “What else can I say to you then, other than… I am incredibly sorry, Calliope?”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t think a guy has ever said that to me before.”

  “What. That he’s sorry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow.”

  “It’s pretty… um. Well, it’s… it’s kind of. It’s really sexy behavior.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case… let me take it a step further then. I, Ralph Anderson, take full and complete responsibility for the death of your dinos.”

  “Shut up, dude,” I say, laughing.

  “No, no, really! Had I known that a massive asteroid would strike this planet and wipe out the creatures you so dearly love, and if I had the power to go back in time and stop it… I would.”

  “Well, how in the hell would you have done that? That’s impossible. That’s—”

  “Hey, Callie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Go with me here, will ya? I’m letting myself be unscientific and non-literal for just a minute.”

  “You called me Callie.”

  “I did. Is… that okay?”

  “Nobody really calls me that. But, yeah. It’s okay.”

  “Cool,” he says with a smile. “So, Callie. I guess what I would have to do… You know, after I time traveled back a few millennia—”

  “A few?”

  “Alright, more than a few. I’d have to invent a rocket since they wouldn’t be invented just yet, shoot myself up to the heavens, then circle the Earth’s atmosphere until I could hitch a ride on that bastard ball of flaming rock dead set for your dinos. I would latch onto it with my brute strength and push that mammoth motherfucker off course until it found some other planet and some other life form to obliterate. Then I’d fall back to Earth like a feather, land back on a cozy couch with you and our pet, Troodon, since Troodon is obviously and by far the most precious dinosaur to ever walk the planet, and we’d watch Friends, drink Yoo-hoo, and laugh our asses off together until the day we died a peaceful non-apocalyptic death.”

  This. Guy.

  “Uggadah-uggadah. Woo!”

  “What was that? Did you just do a little jig?”

  “Of course not. I just had a-a, uh…. a charley horse situation.”

  “Really? I thought those only happened when people were sleeping.”

  “Oh no, they can happen anytime.”

  “Huh.”

  Truth? I was so turned on by him at that moment, I did a lusty little leg shake to get those warm and fuzzy feelings moving right back where they came from. Full disclosure? It didn’t work.

  “I have work to do,” I blurt out suddenly. “You need to go.”

  “What? What kind of work?”

  “Research! I need these people to take me seriously and they’re not going to if – Just go, please.“ I start physically pushing him toward the door.

  “Geez! Fine! Can I at least put my shoes on?”

  “I don’t know, can you?”

  There I go again, getting mean when I’m nervous.

  Picking up his shoes, I shove them into his chest, then explode into a riot of words as I keep pressing him out the door and into the hallway

  “This has been surprisingly fun, and I really appreciate you carrying the boxes, and stuffing envelopes, and drinking beer with me, and rubbing my feet, and tap dancing for me, and generally being sweet and adorable and smart and wonderful, but I really think it’s best that we don’t fraternize outside of work until I figure out why my boss hates me and how I can impress her, or until you suddenly become an unintelligent unattractive troll instead of the delicious, sweet, kind man you obviously are.”

  “Callie, can we just—”

  “Goodbye and good riddance, Ralph. Well, not good riddance. You don’t deserve any riddance, but… yeah, goodbye.”

  I slam the door and lock the bolt, then hear a quiet and confused, “Bye,” echo in the hall.

  Aaaand we’re back where we started. Me trapped inside a tiny, tight little space, while he and his beautiful face and voice and—let’s face it—his expansive, open, out of this world personality is on the other side.

  I am one hell of a smooth operator, huh?

  Yup. Smooth. As. Hell.

  Chapter Ten

  “You mean they’re all dead? All of them?” Oliver’s little eyes well with tears as he looks up at me.

  Dino Diggers Day Two is in full
swing, and I already have a devastated child to deal with.

  “It makes me feel sad too, Oliver. But yes, the dinosaurs are all gone.” I try breaking it to him gently.

  “Duh, Oliver, how did you not know that?” Firecracker Finn pops in. “Think about it! Do you ever see a triceratops walking down the street?”

  “No! But I don’t see lions walking down the street, either, because they live in Africa! So I thought maybe the dinosaurs live in Africa too!”

  “What? That’s the stu—”

  I jump in before Finn can say anything else. “I can see where you might think that, Oliver, but you won’t find dinosaurs anywhere on any continent anymore except for bones and fossils because they’re extinct.”

  Apparently, we’re blowing this little guy’s young mind. It’s both sad and adorable.

  “I didn’t know that’s what esstink meant! I thought esstink meant they were super smelly like a skunk!”

  “My Dalmatian, Cruella, got sprayed by a skunk last summer,” Holden pipes in. “My daddy gave her a tomato juice bath and said a lot of curse words.”

  “Oliver! Extinct means dead, dead, dead forever, dummy!”

  Ugh. Finn.

  “That’s enough, Finn. We don’t call our friends dummies.”

  “My Pop-Pop is dead, dead, dead forever too,” Oliver says. I see the gears in his little head turning. “That means I have an esstink Pop-Pop!” And then he starts to cry even harder.

  Good lord, why don’t I have an assistant for this?

  “Actually,” little Harper offers, “death is just an illusion. The only thing that exists is a series of eternal nows.”

  What kind of crack are this girl’s parents smoking?

  I’m grateful for Harper’s New Age mumbo jumbo, though. We’re all so confused by her non sequitur that all crying and whining and teasing cease for a moment.

  “Guys?”

  Harper gives me what after just two days I know is her woke look.

  “I apologize. Diggers?”

  She nods in acceptance of my gender-neutral adjustment.

  Just then, Ralph walks into the atrium, clearly on his way to the planetarium. My face immediately starts to heat. I haven’t seen him or spoken to him since I kicked him out of my apartment last night. I mean, I don’t even have his number, do I? Should I say something to him? I’m not sure how I’m supposed to behave.