⠀⠀⠀I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar. We exchange a few pleasantries—he asks what I do. I say I loved him in Monster Hunter: World. He laughs and I get my drink.
⠀⠀⠀"Well, it was a pleasure to meet you," I say abruptly and walk away. I've got his attention now. How many guys would voluntarily leave a conversation with Nergigante? He touches his scales impatiently as he watches me leave.
⠀⠀⠀Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, he finds me on the balcony, my bow tie undone, smoking a cigarette.
⠀⠀⠀"Got a spare?" he asks cordially. I knew there was something to be had for playing hard to get, but I wasn't expecting it to be so effective this quickly.
⠀⠀⠀"What's in it for me?" I reply as I hand him one of my little white ladies. The lavender lips at the end of his triangular snout form a gentle smile.
⠀⠀⠀Sarcasm charges his response. "Conversation with me, duh." Sharing his sentiment, I laugh this time, despite feeling somewhat out of my comfort zone. I believe myself to be different from the aforementioned gorgeous narcissists that are so ever-present, but I can’t help but feel as if I’m somewhere I have no place being. There are semantics to a red carpet that fit a different bill than I have ever personally identified with.
⠀⠀⠀He tilts his head slightly to my right, allowing the pearlescent glow from the golden chandelier above us to give his eyes, in all their amber glory, a sheen that was otherwise not present. "What's so funny?" he protests.
⠀⠀⠀Had my laugh come off as snarky? "Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?"
⠀⠀⠀"You get used to it," he says, lighting his cigarette and handing me back the lighter. “There’s not always enough fame to go around.” He was a professional—gentle and slow in his movements, not a single ounce of energy wasted. The way he snapped the metal head of my Zippo shut produced a satisfactory click with a different air of authority than I was used to.
⠀⠀⠀"What would you do if you weren't a divinely powerful spike-launching dragon?" I ask. My throat feels the urge to chuckle slightly again, but I stop myself out of a desire for a deeper authenticity to our conversation.
⠀⠀⠀"Teaching, I think."
⠀⠀⠀His tail flicks the ground softly—just once—its spikes smacking loudly against the wooden footrest of the barstool. "And if I was your student, what would I be learning?"
⠀⠀⠀"Discipline," he blurts, breaking the eye contact we’d been holding since we started smoking. His tail flicks the oak floor once more as his lips purse together slightly. A small rock shoots from his nose, falling predictably to the floor as it meets an unremarkable oblivion. “Control,” he mutters softly, hastily under his breath, looking back up into my eyes before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"
⠀⠀⠀"New Zealand," I say. I slowly twirl my glass in a circle before setting it down on the counter. It’s hard not to stare at the liquor and the two large ice cubes spinning centrifugally in unison for a few moments. My hands grasp together and I turn in my seat to the right, our eye contact broken again thanks to my decision to stare at the wall of extravagant bottles in front of me instead.
⠀⠀⠀"Oh, wow. That's lovely."
⠀⠀⠀"It's okay," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."
⠀⠀⠀"What could possibly be not to your liking in New Zealand?" he inquires. “The weather, the scenery, the healthcare! I’ve always imagined it to be quite lavish.” His tail flicks against the floor again, then the lower half of his stool. He grabs his bony cauda impatiently and sits it under his right thigh.
⠀⠀⠀"I don't like sand," I tell him. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere." It's easy to see some cogs start turning in his head once I say that. Perhaps he's not a fan of sand either? Maybe it bothers his scales?