The dinosaur was now sitting at the table with them. She was practically crushing his date in order to fit into the booth.

“Great, now this is happening,” he muttered with resentment.

She began to speak: “A drawing in pen is the same as a drawing in pencil. A digital illustration is the exact same thing as the same image in oil paint. The stitches on your shirt are the same as the stitches holding together your skin. Your skin, itself, is made of fibers weaving together a tapestry of something.”

Their date hummed, as if actually considering this. Then they responded: “I don’t think any of that is true.”

“Of course it’s not true! It’s a figment of my imagination because I have, I don’t know, mommy issues or something.” He gestured at her with exasperation, though she did not even seem to be looking at him.

She continued: “A mother is the same as a father. A father is the same as an egg born of a chicken. A chicken is the same as a dinosaur, which is coincidentally exactly the same as a horse.”

“That’s all bullshit,” he retorted, already knowing his words wouldn’t amount to anything. Because none of this was ever going to connect. It would just keep starting, or ending, but never both, and never




getting better.