The Tyrumposaurus sighed and stared down at his scaly, arthritic right hand. He flexed it, marveling at the ghosts of gallivanting goosebumps. He could swear his hand still tingled, he still tingled from the day’s events.
My own wife won’t hold my hand. But Emmanuel will. My Emmanuel. Just an hour ago. I miss already the feel of his warm grasp, his soft, supple flesh pressing mine. And when he let go, it felt like my heart being wrenched from his. The pain. Worse than bone spurs. Hugely.
Because dinosaur leaders can only hold hands for so long. Then tongues wag and tails droop. That’s the world we live in. These are the constraints I’m under. The rules I yearn to break. I remember staring at his hand. His immaculate, finely manicured claws. Their touch so close, yet so far. My starving vanity crying out for his clean cut attention, my limp wrist failing miserably, resigning itself, seeking instead the sloppy second, the cold, bland hand of the T-Melania. So sad.
Great days with her are of course long gone. It was the Stormydaniel’s fault. The Karenmcdougal’s fault. The fault of all those female accusers, those heartless, lying temptress dinos eager to knock me down a notch. They all spurned my well-meaning advances. How dare they. I was just being me, a sucker for a pretty Pornodactyl.
But Emmanuel didn’t abandon me. No, Emmanuel was there for me when I needed him most — to show the world I am a somebody … a dino able to attract another dino and hold onto their attention span for more than five minutes.
Emmanuel clutched my hand. It felt good. Then my arm, my shoulder, with strength bordering on malice. His pat on the back. No one has ever pat me on the back. Not even my father. Am I mothering Emmanuel because my mother didn’t mother me? I shuddered, craving yet one more affectionate assault from him. Emmanuel is the hand with the French accent.
Oh, sure, I’ve shaken hands with the Justintrudeau, but it was less Francophoney. Or was it more Francophoney? Anyway, with Emmanuel it was just right. Better accent, that’s it. I don’t like my accents watered down. Besides, the Justintrudeau is just next door. Who wants the bromance next door? Too easy. The T-Rump doesn’t settle.
With Emmanuel there will alway be the thrill of the chase, until our hands touch, sealing our fate, the reassuring grip of reality that makes me want to drag him around behind me all day long. Perhaps that’s just the dinosaur in me, dinosaur energy looking to escape. And be noticed.
Emmanuel listened to me. Oh, perhaps he trashed what I had to say afterwards but after all, they are only words. He will hold my hand again. And listen. His smile so genuine. It’s as if he really cares. Unlike the fake news Mediacircustops who can’t find anything nice to say about me from all their non-existent sources. But Emmanuel exists for me. He makes me feel young and vibrant. He makes me forget flogging. Who can do that? Perhaps he’ll let me help him with his back swing. I must invite him back. And get him something. The T-Melania’s birthday will have to wait.