A Man and His Pterodactyl

I bought a pterodactyl at a flea market.

It happened Friday, somewhere between three and four. I went to buy speakers for my record player and came home with a small wooden box instead. A pterodactyl dozing inside.

"Is it actually real?" I asked the seller. Hunched old man with a face like a dried apricot.

"Real pterodactyls don't exist," he said.

The box said "Ptero." Below that, elegant characters that looked like Chinese or Japanese calligraphy.

When the sun rolled behind the neighbour's roof, there was a splash from the box. Like someone flapping wings in water. I opened the lid—it looked at me.

The pterodactyl was no bigger than a crow. Webbed wings like parchment. Eyes cold and empty. Like a mailman at three AM. It climbed out of the box, walked around my room. Made its way to the balcony.

I thought it would fly away, but it stayed.

We lived together after that.

Every morning it sat on the back of my chair while I drank coffee. Evenings we listened to jazz. Sometimes it opened its beak, singing along. Swayed a little to the saxophone. I named it Kansas—after an old record it especially liked.

Sometimes Kansas and I went for walks. People didn't notice it. The way they don't notice streetlights during the day. Or their own shadow when it's cloudy. It sat on my shoulder. Nobody paid attention.

Once I asked this woman I'd been seeing a couple months:

"You mind that I live with a pterodactyl?"

She looked at me. Took a sip of wine.

"I thought that was just a metaphor."

One day Kansas disappeared.

Tuesday. I woke up, made coffee, put on a record—the chair was empty.

I checked the box. The balcony. The closet. Went outside, looked through neighbours' windows. Nothing.

Kansas vanished the way some people vanish from your life. Quietly. No note, no reason.

I sat in the chair. Poured coffee. But the taste was flat. The saxophone wasn't playing anymore. Just empty air.

Week later I went back to the same flea market. The old man still sat there, chewing something that looked like dried tangerine.

"You got another pterodactyl?" I asked.

"Why would you need two?" he said. Didn't look up. "One's already too many."

Now I live alone. Sometimes I think Kansas comes back at night. Watches me from the bathroom mirror. Or sits on the windowsill when I close my eyes.

I drink coffee again. Listen to jazz. Sometimes I even smile.

But the taste—still a little flat.