Traffic slows to a crawl around 60th and Jackson. As I approach the cause of the delay, I see the steaming, crumpled front end of a once nice-looking sports car positioned next to its ‘victim’, a behemoth of a pickup truck. The truck, more closely resembling a tank than anything road-worthy, doesn’t appear to have a scratch on it. That fact fails to placate its owner, an intensely irate ankylosaurus with a clubbed tail the size of a small planet. The intimidating sphere twitches back and forth menacingly as the dinosaur it’s attached to paces between the vehicles. He shouts what I assume to be accusations and obscenities at a dazed human who sits on the curb nearby. As the row of vehicles piloted by rubber-necked onlookers continues to soldier forward, I start to make out some of the screams through my closed windows: “... fucking SKINNIE, what were you DOING?! You were on your fucking PHONE, weren’t you, you APE?! Troglodyte fuck, go back to your cave!!” Good to see human-dino relations are just as healthy as ever. The frazzled man on the curb puts his hands up in an exaggerated shrug and says something that I can’t quite make out. Given the gesture, it was either an apology, an excuse or a clap-back. Whatever it was, it lights a fire in the ankylosaurus’s eyes. With a mighty grunt and a heave, he swirls around and slams his mace-like appendage into the side of the sports car, sending it careening off the road and into a nearby lamppost. Unluckily for him, this is the exact moment the police pull up, who immediately exit their cars and begin yelling for the ankylosaurus to get on the ground. Luckily for me, this all goes down just as I pass by, narrowly avoiding both the dinosaur’s tail-enabled vehicular massacre and the inevitable traffic rerouting that’s sure to happen once the situation has been defused and the cleanup crew starts rolling in. As I look in my rearview mirror, even though I feel my attention should have naturally been on the half-dozen police officers tackling the road-raging wrecking ball, I instead become transfixed with the smoldering heap that was once a sports car. That thing isn’t ever driving again, but… for all the abuse it took, somehow, miraculously, it seems to have only been crumpled in and demolished on its driver’s side. Looking at its passenger side, you’d think it was fresh off the lot. Hell, you could post a profiled picture of it to CragsList and get some serious offers. Huh… it almost reminds me of- The loud tone of an incoming call blaring through my car’s speakers breaks me out of my train of thought. Damned thing, I keep my phone on vibrate because I despise shrill phone jingles. It doesn’t seem that I can communicate this dislike properly to my car’s Bluetooth without a pair of needle-nose pliers and a desire to void my warranty. My hatred is quickly quelled when I see Lucy’s beautiful smile on the dash-mounted display. I’ve never seen her smile more vibrantly or joyfully than in that wedding picture, so of course I made it my phone’s contact image for her. I tap the ‘Accept Call’ button. “Y’ello?” Through the car’s slightly tinny speakers, I hear her familiar voice. “Hey, honey. Are you done with your appointment?” “Yes ma’am. Currently on my way home, but got a little held up by an accident.” She gasps, and I realize I could have worded that a bit better. “Oh, not me. I wasn’t involved; I’m fine. I meant it was an accident that held up traffic for a few blocks.” “Oh, thank goodness. Were the drivers okay?” “Well, the human was, unless he scraped his elbows as he dove behind the trashcan in abject terror. That ankylosaurus is probably in for some jail time, though.” “... What?!” “I’ll give you the details when I get home. I was hoping to convince you I’m a psychic by turning on the TV during dinner and accurately predicting, to the finest detail, what one of the top stories on the six o’clock news was going to be, buuut… I guess the jig is up now.” I hear her giggle. I love her laugh. “Well, Mr. Psychic, if you are so great and powerful, why did I call you?” I gulp. “Erm… to tell me how much you love me?” “Well, of course.” Nailed it. She continues. “But what else?” Shit. “Can you give me a hint?” “Hmm… a psychic that needs hints, this is sounding more and more like a scam.” “Alright, fine! I relent! You’ve exposed me for the charlatan I am. What did you call me for?” She giggles again. “Victory is mine! You can reward my triumph by swinging by the grocery store and picking up some peas and garlic seasoning. I forgot to get those earlier, and this roast just won’t be the same without them!” “Your will is my command. I’ll stop at Kroaker, that way I can pick up my prescription, too. Anything else, milady?” “Just that I love you.” “See, I told you I was a psychic!” “Mmhmm, and doesn’t Mr. Psychic have something to say in return?” “... Behold my splendor?” “No, you dweeb!” I can’t keep teasing her. “I love you, sweetie. See you in a few minutes with your spoils of victory.” I hear her giggle as she hangs up the phone. God, she’s adorable. I know we’re still newlyweds, but I hope we can always keep this spark between us: this love, this friendship. I just wish… I wish she could share her friendship with others besides me. I mull over the discussion I had with Dr. Fitzgerald as I continue my journey to the nearby grocery store. “You are right that you cannot solve the problems of others, but I’m a firm believer that there is always more that you can do to work toward a good outcome.” Translates to: “Try harder.” Sage wisdom from the fella who gets paid half a boat every hour. “Don’t give up simply because you’ve bumped into a few hurdles, but also, don’t assume that you unquestioningly know what’s best for Lucy.” Obviously I’m not going to give up. I also don’t assume I know what’s best for Lucy. I only have my observations and my gut feeling. Every time I try to broach the subject with her, she clams up on me. I just have to be a bit more steadfast, I guess. “She is her own person.” Well, of course she… "You are not the only person in the world. Everyone is fighting their own battles." … That wasn’t Dr. Fitzgerald. Who was that? Before I can ponder this riddle too deeply, the logo for Kroaker appears on the horizon. The supermarket looms like a mountain over the surrounding strip malls. As much as I dislike big chains, the convenience of getting everything in one place is too alluring. After parking, I make my way through the sliding glass doors and directly underneath a pair of blast furnaces. It’s not even that cold out yet, but they’ve got the vents cranked to molten levels. I quickly grab a cart before sustaining first-degree burns and navigate through the second set of doors to the labyrinth beyond. Greeted by rows upon rows of product-stacked obelisks, I push my squeaking chariot of meshed steel toward my needed items. Peas, garlic seasoning… and my prescription. Even though my long-term memory seems to be failing me today, my short-term memory is still firing on all cylinders. I make a turn into the “Spice” aisle… and narrowly avoid running down a small child with my cart. He looks up at me with enormous green eyes, his diamond pupils glistening with innocence and ignorance of how close he came to being flattened by my trolley. The hand of an adult quickly whisks him away, its owner smiling an apology at me and whispering some chastisement to the little one. My gaze follows the mother and child down the aisle. The boy’s eyes remain locked with mine until he is escorted out of eyeshot. I feel a twinge in my stomach. Something primal, something biological, something… instinctual. I shake my head. Way too early for thoughts like that. Lucy and I haven’t even discussed it. Plus, we need to go to the doctor for viability tests and… I let out a sigh. After all the excitement my brain has been through today, I’m gonna need a cold shower and a long sleep. I locate the brand of garlic seasoning Lucy likes and toss it into the cart, only now realizing that procuring this method of food transportation was wholly unnecessary given the limited scope of what I need to pick out. As I exit the aisle and make my way to the produce section… Before me, a figure intently examines the rows of fresh cabbage. Their back is facing me, but from the general outline, I can tell this dinosaur is a woman. She is a bit on the shorter side… and purple… with a frilled halo and several white horns jutting from the top of her head. A darker shade of curled, purple hair is slightly visible, and her tail sways contemplatively. It… it couldn’t be. I cautiously approach, trying to identify her without coming across as a total creeper. As I come to a stop next to her, I slowly turn my attention from the cabbage toward her face, glancing from the corner of my eye. At that exact moment, she makes her selection, a particularly juicy-looking cabbage, and turns in the opposite direction to continue shopping. Fuck. It’s now or never. I either speak up or keep trailing this poor woman until the authorities are called on my stalking ass. “... Excuse me? … Trish?” The triceratops stops in her tracks. She slowly turns to look at me. … It’s not Trish. “You talkin’ to me, hon?” The triceratops, though a very familiar hue to the one I knew in high school, looks absolutely nothing like Trish in the face department. The purple eyes are replaced with brown ones, the eyebrows are penciled on in a gaudy, glittery line, and the nose horn turns to a strange, asymmetrical angle. To call this woman homely would be rude, but… she wouldn’t be my first choice to ask to prom. Prom… huh. “... ‘Scuse me, mister? Whatchu say?” I gotta stop zoning out. I shake my head apologetically. “Sorry, ma’am. I thought you were someone else.” She flicks her eyebrows upwards as she gives me a quick top-to-bottom scan with her eyes. With a click of her tongue against her teeth, she turns away and continues pushing her cart along its path. The twitch of her tail communicates what she didn’t say out loud. I stand, stupefied, next to rows of cabbages that seem to silently judge me with their leafy gaze. ‘Ohh, all triceratops look the same, do they?’ They whisper silently into my brain. Fucking cabbage… alcohol is what I need. I grab a bag of fresh peas from the nearby stall and turn towards the liquor section. I’ve never been a big drinker, but a little sauce can certainly take the edge off of a frustrating day. I lazily pass my gaze across seas of canned and bottled delights… IPA… stout… lager… porter… vodka… gin… rum… whiskey… Nothing is singing the sweet song of “Drink me”. I stop upon reaching the wine section, both because it’s the last aisle of the liquor department and because I’m struck with an idea. As much of a teetotaler as I am, Lucy is doubly so. Given her persona in high school, you’d take her for someone who would have hit the bottle hard, just as soon as she was able to convince older dinos to buy her some as they entered the liquor store. However, she pretty much cut all of that edge away while I was overseas. She wrote to me that she had quit smoking, even though the partaking of sin sticks was uncommon for her even in high school, and she never mentioned alcohol. Since I’ve been home and we’ve been together, I can only say I’ve seen her drink once, and that was the champagne at our wedding. Not that I’m complaining, I’m perfectly happy to have a sober home, but… we might have some heavy topics approaching us. A little liquid courage might do us both some good. I pick up a bottle and inspect its label. A petite pterodactyl woman and a burly caveman hold a large parcel of grapes between the two of them. Their smiles accentuate the name of the wine, “Harmony”. I roll my eyes at the social commentary of a wine bottle, but smile all the same at the ironic pairing. Lucy would get a kick out of this, even if the wine turns out to taste like feet. I place the bottle in my cart and begin the journey towards my final stop: the pharmacy. A small line leading up to the pharmaceutical department separates me and freedom from this jungle of victuals and sundries. As I tap the handle of my shopping cart with a finger, I recount the strange barrage of nostalgia that’s been assaulting me since I left Dr. Fitzgerald’s office: 1. Car crash involving a familiar sports car, similarly battered only on one side, much like a particular vehicle with a particularly stupid name driven by a particular brother-in-law. The line moves forward one pace. I catch a faint whiff of something smokey. 2. Someone interjecting additional quotes to my breakdown of Dr. Fitzgerald’s advice, delivered in a gruff yet gentle tone… a tone that would, on occasion, forego the ‘gentle’ part for ‘eardrum-shatteringly loud’. The line moves forward one pace. From the corner of my eye, I see a streak of orange. 3. An encounter with a doppelganger of a high school acquaintance, one which was able to convincingly copy all aspects of its target except for the face. I’m reminded of a pink, blobbish creature from an old cartoon I watched about illegal cock fighting, but with like birds and turtles and shit. The line moves forward one final pace. I’m too wrapped up in my own world to notice I’ve arrived at the front of the line, and directly in front of the pharmacist. A voice that sounds a little too raspy for its age makes its way to my ears. “‘Sup, man, what can I do for you tod-” … He trails off. I bring my attention up to the face that emanated the voice. Half-open violet eyes meet my own, slowly widening upon my returned gaze. Several strands from the mess of orange hair atop his head seem to stand on end, proclaiming a silent celebration of realization. A broad smile works its way up the sides of the raptor’s mouth, as a bushy red tail threatens to depart its owner’s behind and propellor itself into the sunset. My jaw drops. “... REED?!”