I pull my sedan into a driveway off 86th Street. Beside it, I’m greeted by a modest little house with a simple brick exterior and an off-gray roof. The single-story home looks like something out of a picture book, complete with pristine white picket fence. The only disconnect here would be the several small patches of browning grass and the thus-far neglected flower bed. I think back to the gardening club and how I nearly turned my pale thumb green with my detention work in the school gardens. That green has since been covered with dirt and sand by my deployment, but maybe I can get back some of that magic someday.

I exit my vehicle, parcel of groceries in hand, and make my way toward the front door. Upon it hangs a decorative letter ‘M’, a wedding gift from Naser to represent Lucy and I’s now shared last name. It was a surprisingly thoughtful item, a charming wooden ornament with swirls of gray and green dancing across its face. I remember what he said as we opened the gift at the reception:

“Lucy Mous. I don’t think I’m gonna get used to that for a while.”

This, of course, led to Lucy giggling and another round of clinking glassware demanding that the bride and groom kiss once more.

As kind as Naser’s gift was, I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt that it adorns the gift that Lucy’s parents gave us. When Ripley and Samantha dropped the keys to this house into my outstretched hand, Lucy crumpled on the spot. Being the gentleman I am, I instantly joined her on the ground, and I’ll maintain to this day that it was purely to cradle my weeping bride in my arms and not because my own legs gave out too.

“Oh, come on now, kids. It’s just the down payment. You’ve still got a mortgage to take care of. Get up, get up!”

Ripley managed to pull us to our feet, his joyous tears combining with our own as he embraced Lucy and I. Samantha joined in with the embrace the best she could, her own tears soaking into the breast of my suit jacket and the back of Lucy’s wedding gown. The photographer did a bang-up job with his collection of memories, and that particular photo was an absolute keeper.

As generous as their gift was, I can’t help but notice how conveniently close our beautiful little home is to her parent’s house. At only three blocks away, they were either planning this maneuver for a while, or Ripley had some dirt on a real estate agent and called in a favor. Not that I’m complaining, but I imagine I’ll be helping out with a lot of their yard maintenance and other household chores as her folks start to get a bit older. Ah, well, it’s a small price to pay for their kindness.

As I enter my home, I hear Lucy’s voice from the kitchen. “Hey, honey! You got that stuff I asked for?” The doorframe connecting the kitchen to the living room blocks out most of her form from my view. I can, however, make out a pair of silvery, feathered wings happily bobbing along with their owner’s movement. I wordlessly move around the threshold of the kitchen, finally laying eyes on the pterodactyl to whom the wings belong. Draped in a pink and white sundress, she is chopping a large carrot, her delicate hand rocking the knife back and forth with a gentle rhythm. Her tail stops swaying as she senses my approach from behind.

It’s too late. The attack is sprung. I slide my hands across her hips and enclose them until they cross one another, finding purchase on either side of her stomach. I bring my body into contact with hers and hear her let out a soft gasp. She follows it with a giggle. “Well, hello there, handsome.” She places her hands on my own and runs her fingers across my arms. Her wings gently unfurl and arc backward, enclosing me in a reverse embrace. Strands of her silver hair slide across the side of my face as I move in closer. She turns her head to mine, and places her lips on my own. Her tail twitches, its position in proximity to my own body becoming very apparent-

One of the items in the grocery bag that still dangles from my hand suddenly shifts. The unexpected crinkle of plastic startles both of us. After a second, Lucy giggles again. “Is that a bag of groceries, or are you just happy to see me?” She takes the parcel from my hand and turns toward me, peering inside it. Thanks a lot, plastic bag; you certainly know how to kill a moment.

As she examines the contents, I reach my hand in and withdraw the bottle of wine. I hold it up to Lucy for her to take note of the label. “It wasn’t on your grocery list, but I saw this and thought, hey, why not? It made me think of you.”

She raises an eyebrow and puts a teasing smirk on her face. “Oh, is that it? Any old ptero gal will get you going, will they?”

I look at her in exaggerated shock, turn my gaze to the bottle’s label, then back to her. I ponder for a moment, then look back at the bottle. “Hmm. I was going to say you’re a lot prettier than she is, but now that I look closer…”

She playfully jabs me in the stomach with her elbow. “Like you’d stand a chance with her. Now, that hunk of a caveman she’s next to… I’d mash his grapes any day if you know what I mean.”

Fucking ouch. But also, hot.

I place the bottle on the kitchen table as Lucy turns back to her food preparation, still rummaging in the bag. “Dinner will be ready in about an hour. Thanks again for getting these- oh, and here you go, sweetie.” She removes the small white paper bag containing my prescription and hands it to me. “How was your appointment?”

“Ah, you know. Same old business. They strapped me into a chair, injected hallucinogens into my eyeballs and made me watch an endless loop of the Pterotubbies dancing in a field of posies.”

“Modern medicine at its finest. And here I was worried about the girl on the wine bottle; now you’re telling me I have to compete with Tinky-Winky?”

“Oh, hell no. Not Tinky-Winky. Everybody knows Laa-Laa is the one with the dummy thicc tubbies.”

Lucy laughs and shakes her head. “You are such a dork! Really, though, how did it go?”

“It went well. We actually got to discuss important stuff today. It didn’t feel like a waste of time like some of the previous sit-ins.”

She tears open the bag of peas and dumps the contents into a strainer. Over the sound of the running faucet, she asks, “What did you talk about?”

I wag a finger at her, a fruitless gesture seeing as her back is facing me as she attends to the peas. “Ahh, ahh, ahh! That’s patient-doctor confidentiality.”

She turns to me and droops her head in an exaggerated show of disbelief. “You know I am your wife, right? If I’m your emergency contact, shouldn’t I be privy to this information?”

I grin. “Who said you were my emergency contact? I trust Naser way more than you if I go down.”

She balks at this statement. “He’s three states away!”

“... So?”

She shakes her head and turns back to the sink. “You’re unbelievable sometimes!” Though she’s playing at being upset, I can hear the smile in her words.

“I know, I surprise even myself with how great I am. Once you’ve got the prep done, do you want to watch something while we wait for the slow cooker to do its thing?”

She dumps the freshly rinsed peas into the crock pot. The smell of roasting meat is already making my stomach rumble. “Way ahead of you, my love. I put a few new movies in the queue; pick one out that you like.”

She’s beautiful, she cooks and she enjoys the same types of movies I do. Raptor Jesus, what did I do to deserve such a woman? Lucy hums a little tune to herself as she twists off the top of the garlic seasoning bottle, removes the freshness seal and sprinkles a dash onto the roast. I make my way down the hallway of our little home, past the spare bedroom, which currently serves the dual purpose of ‘exercise room’ and ‘stacks-of-boxes warehouse’, and into our bedroom.

Absent-mindedly, I throw open both doors of the master bathroom medicine cabinet and stare hazily at the contents. We’ve done a fair job of keeping our own items to each side of the cabinet. On the left, my various personals: a toothbrush, deodorant, aftershave, a nice razor and nail clippers are arranged neatly in their proper place. Below them, a small row of pill bottles, including my stockpile of untaken prescription antidepressants alongside other over-the-counter drugs. I remove my new, redundant bottle of medication from its bag and place it in the row, turning its label to match its neighbors.

On the right side of the cabinet, Lucy’s toiletries and feminine products are also arranged in an orderly fashion. Her own toothbrush, though a different shape than mine to accommodate her unique dental layout, lays across the top shelf. Ladylike variations of “stuff to make you smell nice” are lined up, including a particular bottle of perfume I purchased for her a few weeks ago. I’m glad she enjoys it because its aroma drives me wild. Propped against the far right side of the cabinet, in a space that doesn’t quite fit anything else, stands what appears to be a pair of hedge clippers. When I first inquired about this particular yard implement and its placement in our medicine cabinet, Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Scale and feather trimmers, you dweeb. Think like your puny little fingernail clippers but with the strength and agility to cater to my beautiful, shapely form.”

Yes, and in the case of someone breaking into our home, I know where I can go to arm myself with a deadly weapon. Her own assorted bottles of pterosaur-specific medication rest on the bottom shelf, mostly basic things like headache relief and antacids. One bottle from which I have yet to see her take any doses is labeled with an image of a droplet of water flanking a terribly complex name. When I inquired about it with Lucy, she merely shot me a coy smile and said, “You’ll see.” Not content with such a conclusion to my investigation, I took to Gruugle and typed the cryptic string of letters into the search engine. Oh. Oh. “Estrus Management” medication.

“Good news, everyone! Today we’ll be talking about the miracle of ‘estrus season’!” Dr. Fernsworth’s words elicited a combination of snickers and groans from the classroom. Really, another class on stupid estrus seasons? Shit’s easy enough with human girls; once a month, do your thing. But dino and ptero girls… there’s a whole extra layer of complication there. I started to space out, firmly believing that this particular lesson couldn’t mean less to me when Dr. Fernsworth’s words regained my attention.

“Now, I’m sure you’ve all learned from previous years about when estrus season occurs, ah- for example, mid-July for tyrannosaurus, late January for stegosaurus, pretty much all of October for you triceratops…” As he said each race, he nodded his head toward a corresponding student in the classroom. Each time he did, an embarrassed look would be averted or a face would be planted firmly into its owner’s palms, flanked by laughter from the other students. Laughter, of course, that abruptly stopped when their own genus was put in the verbal spotlight. He concluded his list by looking at Fang. “...and early April for pterodactyl!” This earned a particularly nasty scowl from Fang, who at the time was still identifying as non-binary.

Dr. Fernsworth seemed to only partially catch his faux pas and bumbled onward. “Oh-wha…? Oh… Where was I? Ah, yes! You know when estrus season occurs, so today we’ll be discussing what to expect when this wonderful time arrives! For many of you, this will mean an increased libido, but for some lucky individuals, it may hit you so hard that you can’t even stay on your feet! Doo hoo, oh my, yes.”

Either the teacher fully understood the double entendre he landed, or he had no clue what he just said. Either way, the entire class was in tatters from laughter at this point, including me. As I gripped my side and wiped a tear from my eye, I caught a glimpse of Fang who was staring daggers in my direction. We weren’t quite officially dating at that time; even so, I quickly realized the error of my judgment and straightened up. I also came to the realization that early April was rapidly approaching, and my ears turned a bright shade of red.

As I sank into my chair and tried to withdraw my head into my chest cavity like a turtle, Dr. Fernsworth continued, holding a small sample pack of pills between his fingers. “If you ever get a bad case of ‘estrus fever’, these little suckers will straighten you right up and let you function at a mostly normal level. I’ll be passing them out to all the-” He cut himself off, furtively glancing toward Fang. “Er… I’ll leave them on the desk up here. Take them as you leave, if you need them.” The small blister pack of pills had that same water droplet logo on it. I should have remembered the logo, but I guess I was too embarrassed to think straight.

Unfortunately, Lucy and I weren’t quite at the “Let’s horseplay but, like, under the sheets” step of our relationship by the time early April arrived, and I was overseas for each subsequent early April, so… I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. I make a mental note to put something in my phone’s calendar app to remind me of this future occasion, close the cabinet doors and re-enter the master bedroom.

Arguably the most important room in a newlywed’s home, the walls are adorned with several framed photographs. Most of the pictures are from our wedding, though a few other photos of her family are sprinkled in for good measure. A singular photo of my parents and I rests amidst the sea of dinosaur-laden pictures; I was never terribly sentimental before I met Lucy. Upon the wall across from the foot of the bed hangs a flatscreen television. Absent is the tangled mess of cords winding their way from the back of the TV to multiple game consoles. I gave up those days when I flew halfway around the world in service of my country. That said, I do miss Rock Ring sometimes. Maybe it’s still packed up in the spare room somewhere?

The one cord that does snake down from the television leads to our little magic streaming box. Sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed, I pick up the controller and power on both devices. Upon booting, the screen shows two profile pictures and politely asks me, “Who is watching,” the smiling silhouette of a bald man or the grinning shape of a pterosaur? Ironic how well those cartoonish graphics matched up with Lucy and I. I move the cursor over to the pterosaur, both because she added her selection of movies to her own queue and because I royally hosed my profile by fucking around and setting my preferences to that of a 60-something spinstress. I thought it would be funny if my entire recommended list was bombarded with movies featuring hunky men and incomprehensible narratives, and it was, but I can’t figure out how the hell to set it back to normal.

I page through the movie queue, pausing on each one to take a look at its description and silent mini-trailer. There’s a kung-fu movie of some variety, a couple action flicks I’ve seen before (pure kino), a psychological horror, scroll, scroll, scroll… Hmm. Now, this one looks interesting.

A new spear runner, SGPD Officer K, unearths a long-buried secret that has the potential to plunge what’s left of society into chaos. K’s discovery leads him on a quest to find Rick Diplard, a former SGPD spear runner who has been missing for decades. The hunt for the truth begins in this follow-up to one of the most visually spectacular films in cinematic history.

Oh, yeah. That does sound right. I think I recall having watched a movie called Spear Runner when I was younger. I remember it being interesting, but slooow. Right on cue, just as I hit ‘Play Movie’, Lucy darts into the room and, with a leap and a thud, lands directly on her preferred side of the bed. I take the opportunity to scoot backwards and position myself in our usual cuddled movie-watching stance, her wing draped over my shoulder and my arm around her waist.

She rests her head on my shoulder. “Which one did you decide on?”

As I open my mouth to answer her, I am interrupted by an ear-shattering ‘BWOOOOOOOM’ as the studio logo appears. Lucy claps her hands to the sides of her head as I fumble with the remote. Fucking modern movies, why do they have to have such bad audio equalization?! Whatever we had watched last night was nothing but whispered dialogue, and now we’re gonna piss off the neighbors.

I press and hold the ‘Volume Down’ button. “Raptor Christ on his cross of rock, sorry about that. I didn’t even think to check the volume.”

Lucy uncovers her ears and mock-yells. “WHAT?! I CAN’T HEAR YOU, I THINK I’VE GOT PERMANENT DAMAGE HERE.”

I reach out my hand, place my fingers and thumb around the top and bottom of the tip of her snout, and gently squeeze. The barely audible click of her teeth sets her eyes ablaze with playful fury, her muffled laughter and protestation filling the air as she swipes at my arm, trying fruitlessly to free herself from my grasp. She finally wriggles away with a whip of her head and a shove into my armpit, gasping and laughing.

“Haa… aah… you… you are NOT allowed to do that!!”

I laugh along with her. “Just did. Wanna see me do it again?”

She gives me several more playful swats, and as our laughter dies down and we settle back into our cuddling position, the movie begins properly with non-deafening audio levels. About an hour into the film, as K’s police cruiser soars over the dams of the city, the sound of a timer from the kitchen beckons us to partake of the slow-cooked bounty that awaits.

As we portion ourselves servings of the tender meat and hearty vegetables, I recount the car crash I drove past to Lucy. She is enthralled with the story, almost in disbelief that an ankylosaurus would be capable of something so reckless and violent. I think back to the multiple times when dinosaurs of varying degrees of visible musculature, including my beautiful wife, have overpowered me or destroyed things with relative ease.

At the table, we eat in content silence for a few minutes. I know the topic I need to bring up; I’ve been dreading it since I walked in the door. However, the band-aid has to come off at some point. I make eye contact with Lucy, who returns my look with a smile as she chews a mouthful of roast. I take a quick gulp of the wine in my glass, followed by a deep breath.

“So… that’s not all the news I had about today. You know how I was a little later getting home from the grocery store than you expected?”

Lucy gives a muffled “Mm-hmm” affirmation as she swallows her food, takes a sip of her own wine, and prepares her spoon for another delivery.

“... I bumped into Reed.”

Lucy’s hand freezes. Her spoon is suspended in motion, a small piece of carrot escaping its fate and sliding back down into the mixture to rejoin its comrades. Her eyes are affixed to the bowl, a gaze so intent that one might think she was scrying in the food, interpreting the positions of the various bits of meat and vegetables and discerning how their alignment bodes for your future.

This is not the reaction I had hoped for. I’ve already come this far, I need to soldier on a little further. I can’t just let things be anymore.

“He and I caught up for a few minutes. He’s working as a pharmacist now, which I find pretty ironic given where I thought his career trajectory was taking him during high school.”

Lucy’s hand releases the spoon, and both of her arms slowly lower to her sides. Her head droops down a little further. Come on, Lucy, you can do this. I know it’s hard, but come on.

“He was really happy to see me- literally jumped the counter to give me a hug. I was worried that he… well…” I trail off, recalling that one of Reed and I’s final interactions was him throwing me in a headlock and holding me hostage outside of the school auditorium as Trish cornered Lucy and bombarded her with accusations. It was a dick thing for him to do, but I can’t entirely blame him for his actions. Based on his reaction as he let me go, I think he expected things to go a lot better than they did. He thought he was being the hero in that moment, not the villain. I can relate to the feeling.

I regain my train of thought and continue, “I was worried he might not have as fond of memories as I do, but thankfully that wasn’t the case. He was absolutely ecstatic when I told him about you and me, how we’re married now. He-”

I stop abruptly. Lucy has sunk deeply into her chair, her nose pressing into her chest. Her hands have crossed her body, each one gripping handfuls of feathers from either wing.

Fuck. God damn it.

I quickly exit my seat and round the table to her, dropping to my knees and grasping both of her hands before she can pull any of her feathers out. She gasps in fear, her head snapping upwards to make eye contact with me. The look of terror in her eyes communicates that, for a brief moment, she doesn’t recognize me, but realization rapidly dawns on her and tears begin welling up.

“Lucy. It’s okay. It’s okay, honey. I’m here.”

The dam breaks. She crumples out of her chair and into my arms, sobbing profusely as tears pour from her eyes. She has thrown her arms around me in a vice-like embrace, one which I return with fierce protectiveness. Between her gulps for air, she chokes out words. “Anon… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

I gently caress the back of her head, my fingers grazing her crest and running through her hair. “It’s okay, Lucy. I love you. I’ve got you.”

This wasn’t the first panic attack I had to navigate with Lucy. They didn’t happen frequently, but when they did, it was often a close call with preening… sometimes more than a close call. Whenever I brought up the possibility of therapy, I was met with hand-waving and excuses, promises that it wasn’t that bad, assurances that it wouldn’t happen again. And yet, here we are, wrapped within one another’s arms on the floor in a pool of tears and consolations. I repeatedly tell her, “I love you,” as she weeps.

After several minutes, Lucy begins to regain her composure. She is still heavily snuffling and muttering the occasional apology as I reach over to fetch a napkin from the table. As my arm leaves her back, she grips even more tightly to me. I reassure her, “It’s okay, honey. I’m getting you a napkin to blow your trumpet.”

The turn of phrase makes her choke out a laugh, still peppered with sobs but a good sign that we’re making a little progress. I hand her the makeshift tissue and she blows her nose, coating the paper with a mixture of unspent tears and pterosaur mucus. I take the desecrated rag from her hands and place it back on the table, raising my eyebrows and pursing my lips in a look of exaggerated distaste. Lucy’s eyes meet my own as I make the face and she lets out another laugh, less muffled with sadness than before. “Hey, you married me. Package deal.”

I give her a warm smile and place my arm around her again. “I love all of you, Lucy. Even the gross boogers.” She giggles again as she looks helplessly into my eyes, and we kiss. The gesture is long and tender but not heated or sexual. It is a kiss of reinforcement, of acceptance and of love. A kiss between two souls that are bound, through thick and thin, through sickness and in health, until death do we part.

Gradually, I withdraw my lips from her own. Her eyes open again, meeting mine, silently pleading to continue loving her even through her weakness. I will never let you go, Lucy. After a moment, I speak up. “Are you feeling okay enough to get up?”

Lucy nods wordlessly, still gazing into my eyes. I slide one of my knees up, positioning my arms beneath her feathered elbows to support her. As I bring my other leg up, I help to gently hoist her to her feet, her form still trembling. It’s a quick exercise as I ease her into the chair she fell from, still holding her arms in my own. Once she has taken her position, I slide one of the other kitchen chairs over for myself and sit next to her, once again taking her hands.

I look into her eyes. Her amber irises glisten, still moist with residual tears, and her diamond-shaped pupils dilate slightly as she returns my look. I do not use words to communicate my thoughts, but my eyes:

‘I love you, and I will never leave you, but we have to get past this.’

A fragile, apologetic smile tugs at her lips. She responds wordlessly in kind:

‘I’m trying.’

Thankfully, it doesn’t take much convincing to get Lucy to finish her dinner. Her episode certainly took a toll on her hydration; she gulps down several glasses of water in addition to her remaining roast. The half-glass of wine before her goes untouched. As we finish our meal, I clear the table and wash the dishes. My folks taught me proper manners: if you cook, you don’t wash. If you don’t cook, you wash. Simple as.

As I rinse the dishes and load them into the dishwasher, Lucy finally speaks up again. “I’m sorry about all that, Anon. I… I just wasn’t ready for that news, I guess. I really tried not to freak out, but… something about hearing that…”

I dry my hands and approach the pterosaur, still perched on her chair, looking at me with regret and sadness. I gently wrap my hands around her head and bring her to my stomach, cradling her and softly sliding my fingers across her hair. “It’s alright, Lucy. I’m sorry for springing it on you so suddenly. We can talk about it more when you’re feeling up to it.”

She places her hands on my forearms, her claws gently sliding across my skin. “I don’t deserve you, Anon…”

I take a small step back, placing my hands on either side of her face and angling her head up to look at me. “What? All I did was wash the dishes; you’re the one that cooked that kick-ass pot roast. I don’t deserve you!” She lets out a laugh, her beautiful eyes gazing up at me in adoration and love. I hold out a hand, gesturing for her to take it so I might escort her. “Come on, let’s watch some more of that replicant guy going on a journey of self-discovery.”

We settle back into our nest of pillows at the head of the bed, backs against the headboard, and continue on our cinematic journey. The movie is very good, though we distract one another occasionally with gentle caresses and soft nuzzles. As the credits roll and I turn off the television, I glance over to Lucy, half expecting to find her with closed eyes and steady breathing. Instead, she is looking up at me intently, a pleading expression in her eyes.

We make love. The moonlight that peers through the window shines spotlight upon our combined perspiration, the rivulets performing a scintillating ballet on the stage of our bodies. The accompanying music of our voices gives rhythm to the choreography, each soft gasp, trembling moan and utterance of desire punctuating our shared movements. With each scene, a new player takes the stage: our fiery kiss, my hands upon her waist, her claws grasping onto my shoulders. Our passion soon reaches its crescendo, proclamations and reassurances of love finding purchase upon the rafters of the theater. With a final cry, we reach the zenith of our concert and, with heavy breaths and rapidly beating hearts, the curtain closes. There is no applause; only the moonlight bears witness to our performance, its silent glow illuminating the face of the woman with whom I have danced.

“I love you, Anon,” she whispers softly as her eyes close and her breathing becomes steadier.

“I love you too, Lucy,” I reply, bringing her form to me in an embrace.

Sleep does not come as quickly to me as it does to her. For a while, I stare at the ceiling, feeling the gentle rise and fall of the woman who lies in my arms. I think back to my failed attempt at bringing up our old high school friend, of possibly igniting the desire to rekindle that friendship. I knew the journey would not be an easy one, but I didn’t expect such an early setback.

My thoughts shift to the film Lucy and I watched this evening. A man, dedicated to his work but without family or friends save for his artificial girlfriend, goes to the ends of the earth to discover what he is and whether he has a larger purpose. His personal journey ends in failure, but along the way, he is able to sacrifice himself to reconnect a father to his daughter, to mend a broken relationship and change the course of history. He gave everything he had to repair what had been lost, his only reward being a look of acceptance and contentment as he passes away on snow-covered stairs.

I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.