Rhinosaur

This time, it didn’t surprise him that he dreamed. He was quite expecting it, in fact- he remembered awakening earlier that night, just as a nightmare was climaxing. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember what it was. No matter, he was here.
There were people around, a mixture of acquaintances and unknowns. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uneasily- he never did know what to do in a crowd. While deliberating whether he should leave, she materialized.
She looked nothing like she did in real life- her skin was acne-scarred, her eyes were rounder, her hair shorter, her teeth prominent; the list went on. All that remained was her voice. Even before she said a word, though, he knew it was her.
“Hi,” she said.
He smiled, said nothing. Waited for her to proceed- if at all she wanted to. Besides, he trusted silence more than he did words; words distracted you, hid the truth. Not silence, it always told him more. This particular silence grew long, and visibly uncomfortable for her. He finally spoke.
“What?”
Just one word in the warm, gentle way he knew made women want to talk, want to cry in his arms- and then return to their existence without a backward glance at him, he thought with a pang of bitterness. He quickly subdued the sentiment, now wasn’t the time for self-pity. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
“I need to talk.”
He shrugged on his psychiatrist role with ease. ‘Practice makes perfect,’ he thought with not a little cynicism. To her, he merely nodded, took her hand and led her away from the noisy group to a comparatively secluded corner. She still was crying silently, her tears streaming down her cheeks, blurring her vision so she didn’t see where he was taking her, but her trust in him was absolute- he would never hurt her, she knew that. He let her lean against a wall, cupped her face in his hands, raised her gaze to meet his, wiped away her tears, and waited.
“I’ve done something terrible,” she began.
“You finally kicked your neighbor’s cat?” he asked with a small smile.
In spite of her tears, she laughed. She recalled now why she talked to him at times like these, even though her boyfriend didn’t like their closeness.
“I cheated on Alan last night.”
“Okay.”
“And he hasn’t found out the entire story… yet.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Yes...”
“Do you still want to be with him?”
“Uh huh.” A nod.
“Tell me about last night.”
She told him everything, and he listened carefully. Halfway through she was sobbing again, and the rest of it was muffled against his chest. He knew all of it by then- stories like these hardly ever differed. When she finished, he held her silently for a little longer, until his damp shirt began to get almost as uncomfortable as his skin. Gently he pushed her back and kissed her forehead.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she replied with evident surprise at the question.
“Good.” And he whispered to her; words of comfort, of reassurance; all the while hating himself more and more. For they were lies, all of them- and she loved him the more for it, for she believed they were true.
When he stopped, he gave her another quick hug and a kiss on the top of her head, took her hand and led her back into the crowd. He’d seen her boyfriend there before he met her, and he was taking her to him. When this got over, he’d be as alone as before, he knew. Old habits die hard. All of a sudden they were face-to-face with Alan.
“Hey,” he said to him.
“I know you’ve heard about last night. Let me explain- it won’t take a minute. Um, both of us were more than a little drunk last night, we weren’t counting the number of, ah, drinks we were having, and…”
he didn’t know who was more surprised, Alan or her. She was easy to read, as always. The shock, the fleeting hurt, the gratefulness for him, the hope of getting back together with Alan, they all flitted across her features. Maybe she’d realise later that they wouldn’t be meeting again, if he pulled this off. She always was a little slow on the uptake.
Alan was unreadable, though. He didn’t know him well enough to guess what was going through his mind. Mentally he shrugged and plodded on with his narrative, bracing for the punch (or punches) that may come.
What Alan was thinking was, “He doesn’t drink. I know he doesn’t drink…”