Movies Can’t Show What is Like to Live with a Dragon by Ann Yuan

The dragon must be hundreds of years old. She leans on the door frame and spits a flame just big enough to light her cigarette.

 “Don’t expect me to fight for you,” she says.

I look at the no-smoking sign on the door and tell her I don’t expect that kind of thing from a roommate. Game of Thrones is so overrated. Never be a fan.

She nods, passes by me, and walks into the apartment as though she owns this place.

#

According to Dr. Coleman, people digest grief in five stages. I’m still lingering between stage 3 and stage 4, somewhere past bargaining but not fully into depression. He suggests I clean up the place. It will help me refocus my mind.

I throw out garbage that is older than me. It gives me the kind of pleasure of losing ten pounds. At the bottom of a shoebox, I find a crayon drawing: a unicorn with a rainbow mane and long curly eyelashes. I don’t know who put it there. The only thing I’m sure of is that I was never a dragon girl.

#

But now I have to live with one.

Imagine coming home and seeing a dragon lying sprawled on the couch,  shaking the floor with her snore. She gets up late and lumbers in and out with her white belly drooping like a mound of dough. I never see her fly. I bet she can’t do it anymore because of her extra weight. She takes a long bubble bath at night and howls “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”. Romantic movies make her cry, and sirens in the street send her shaking under the cover of a blanket. My insomnia has gotten worse since she moved in. I hear pitch like cymbals crashing next to my head.

Two weeks later, my favorite lip gloss is missing. I know she stole it, so I lock all my makeup in a drawer. 

#

On the subway, I see a girl sitting next to her mother. She is about six or seven years old, wearing a pink sweatshirt and carrying a “Frozen” backpack. Her mother is focused on her cell phone. The girl gazes at me, half curious and half challenging, a princess in wild woods without a guard.

I want to know if she is a dragon girl. I search for the poster for How to Train Your Dragon on my phone and show it to her. She jerks her head up and turns her back to me.

#

I tell the dragon she should start finding a new place.

My voice is low, soft, and full of empathy, even though my head is split by the sound in my ears.  She is not the kind of dragon who can be trained. And I’m not a Viking who can befriend a dragon. Maybe none of this is important. The truth is, there’s no bond between us.

 “You’re kicking me out?” she says, snot dripping from her snoot.

For a moment I almost change my mind. But I know I can’t afford it.

She disappears without notice, just like she first showed up at my door.     

I still can’t sleep.

I lie in bed focusing on the ear ringing that changes from cicadas buzzing to the squeal of a megaphone speaker. When I finally doze off, I dream that the dragon sucks me into her mouth. At first, I’m horrified, kicking and screaming. But then I figure she won’t bite or chew. She just holds me on her tongue like a cough drop, waiting for me to melt.

#

I sit across from Dr. Coleman in his downtown office.

 “Have you skipped your pills?” he asks me.

I try to keep a smile on my face. Where did he get this idea? 

 “Psst.” 

I hear a sound as light as a bird fluttering its wings. There she is, perching on the top of the bookshelf, two tendrils dangling a few inches above the doctor’s ginger hair.

The dragon winks at me—Lie.

#

I bring her home after the doctor’s visit.

 “You did the right thing,” she says, rummaging through the bottom cabinet until she finds the bottle of gin I hid there. 

I don’t know what it means. Am I right in bringing her back, allowing her to drink, or lying about the pills?

A few drinks turn her into my therapist. She says I don’t know how to say no. That’s why I end up with dozens of uncomfortable panties and an ex-boyfriend obsessed with Claw Machine.

I tell her to shut up and mind her own business. She closes her eyes and punches her left chest, which booms like a drum.

“Through the heart, we share each other’s pains and power,” she mutters.

Watching her play Draco makes me laugh. For that moment she looks solemn, pure. The line has provided her the power that she never had. Would she give me half of  Dragonheart if I were dying? That’s probably too much to ask, especially from her. Somehow, I hope she is more than what she is. I imagine sitting astride her back as we zoom between skyscrapers. She is still a dragon, after all.

The apartment is a mess. We live in a dumpster. Later I make cupcakes and paint all her talons bloody red. 

#

 “Yes. Some mental disorders can be hereditary,” Dr. Coleman says as he spins a pen between his fingers.

The dragon arches her back. I shoot her a warning glance.

 “Of course, it doesn’t mean you will have the same symptoms as your mother, or the same prognosis.”

The dragon gets agitated at the doctor’s remarks. She twists and lurches, throwing herself against the walls. 

 “Stop it!” I say.

Dr. Coleman looks around before he narrows his eyes, “Who are you talking to?”

I glance out the window. To the north, the lake stretches to the horizon like an endless green land.

#

We sit on the bench watching kids running and playing on the beach. The dragon is surprisingly quiet. Afternoon sunlight casts an amber glow on her body. The water ripples and glitters like her emerald-colored scales. Her monstrous figure starts shrinking as she sheds her talons and crusty skin. Once again she was a mother making soggy sandwiches and I was a daughter who believed dragons were all evil. She stopped me from rubbing my sandy hand in my eyes, grabbed my wrist, and led me to the shore. As I washed my sweaty face in the lake, she warned me that the water looked pretty but the lake was deep.

I watched her sunbathe like a dried fish. People said she needed more vitamin D. People also said candles and good music should help. People thought she worried too much until she leaped and became a dragon. 

#

In the end, the dragon breaks up into sparks and ascends to the sky. To be a part of a constellation. A legend. But that’s just a movie.

I don’t remember the last time I ate.

The dragon walks in circles. Her fat tail scrapes the floor, making a freaking sound like a piece of metal scratching glass.

I want to bite.

Not now, not today, I tell myself.

I make two bowls of ramen and put them on the table. We both love the MSG-enhanced flavor. “Next time I see Dr. Coleman, you’d better keep your mouth shut.” My way of saying she can stay as long as she wants. I hope she knows she doesn’t pass down anything to me—if that is what’s been bothering her.

The dragon must smell the noodles. She turns and pokes her head into the steam rising from the bowl. Her enormous face is so close to me that I can see my reflection in her watery eyes. I can tell that she recognizes me. I really think she is gonna kiss me. Instead, she bolts across the room, yanks open the window, and—in the way I’d imagined so many times—she flies away.

Ann Yuan

Image by Mahwish Zafar from Pixabay – A white bowl with a red interior filled with a pile of steaming noodles