We met at the coffee shop, and now I could say it: “I met a human named Fido, and he was not really that well.”
Mostly, he talked about his cacti and succulents. He kept many photos of his top ten (ones he said he owned) on his phone.
One of them, he said, a small succulent, was so “punk looking” he felt sad for it, which made me think of dry TV chicken dinners. It made me think about my mother falling asleep with the TV on, and the blue light that washed over most of us in dreams.
We had fifteen minutes left before the meter maid. My ass felt superglued to the seat of the warm Soma coffee shop, Fido and I sipping overpriced, thin tasting cappuccinos.
He seemed to like me too much or else he was just naturally very pink in the face.
“How does a cactus appear punk?” I asked, trying to stop anthropomorphizing the forks on our table which would not be used because we hadn’t ordered any food. He showed me a picture on his phone of a tiny plant in an attractive, pea green ceramic pot.
“It would have felt very much at home in that culture!” he said. I looked at it for a while.
“I see that,” I said.
He smiled and his slightly yellow teeth lined up like lost keys. I offered to pay.