Dragon comes in my kitchen, dips his tail in my bowl of guacamole, bites off the tip of his tail, crunchy. Double dips. Eats everything.
Pauses a minute to grow his tail back.
Goes to the fridge, pulls out bottles and jars. Mayo, ketchup, mustard, relish, soy sauce, barbecue, Grey Poupon. Begins mixology. A dash of this, a squirt of that, condiment cocktail. Grabs my olives. Good purple ones from Spain.
“Olives are not a condiment,” I say.
“You put them on sandwiches and in martinis,” he argues.
“Some people consider them a staple,” I say.
“So do I,” he says, and dumps the whole jar, pits and all, into his concoction.
“Why do you only eat condiments?” I ask, “and why in my kitchen? How did this occur? Where are you from?”
“One question at a time,” he says.
“Where are you from?”
“Which came first, the dragon or the egg?”
“All right, smart Alec, why do you only eat condiments?”
“I don’t. Just because that’s what I’m in the mood for today doesn’t extrapolate to my entire diet. Tomorrow, perhaps lamb, the following day, a kale smoothie.”
In the back of the fridge he finds a small jar of mint jelly. “Speaking of lamb,” he says, and scoops it up. Dumps it in his goo. Gives the whole sticky mess a swirl with a lone talon, tastes it.
“Needs salt,” he declares. I hand it to him.
What, am I supposed to stop him? He’s a fire breathing dragon.