Ms Spitfire: A Short Story

by Bhavika Govil

 A dragon has appeared from the plant on your bedside table and blown fire towards your window. You are horrified—the sales assistant at IKEA had sworn that the curtains were non-flammable, but here you are, in a room set on fire.

You try to put it out with some leftover beer from the night before, but it is still ablaze, so you use water next. The dragon is a dragonette whose name is Salata, which is kind of ironic because she only likes to eat meatballs and lamb curry. You tell her that meat isn’t great for the environment, show her a couple of Youtube videos by Vox while she rolls her long-lashed green eyes and harrumphs. (‘Do dragons harrumph?’ asks Sam, the only person at work you can tolerate, over an unofficial break later in the day. He says, ‘I thought they snorted.’ You correct him.) So, while you heat up a dish of green beans and rice for her, you can hear Salata mumbling, grumbling and harrumphing. You ignore her protests and think that you’ll have a better chat with her about this later. For now, you ask her to sit down and politely nudge an empty bowl in lieu of an ashtray towards her. Honestly, you can only hope that she keeps her flames in check while you’re at work.

Salata is the size of a trade paperback book with a tail. Her skin is less leathery than described in stories, and each scale curves into the other, looking like a series of letters similar to a doctor’s handwriting—legitimate yet illegible. She’s young—maybe fifteen or sixteen in human years—yet when you look at her, you sense a kind of sadness. Like that of a Sunday evening when all possibilities seem to be behind you, and yet exist in front of you at the same time.

***

Since Salata’s arrival, the days at your new job pass slowly. Time slows down when you’re concerned about your house burning to ashes. At first, you had assumed that Salata was only making a pitstop at your place—a strange unsolicited AirBnB arrangement if you will—but after a couple of days of her ignoring your subtle questions such as ‘So… what are your plans?’ you assume that she is going to be around for a little while. So, you decide to take charge. You toughen up, climb onto your revolving chair and remove the batteries from the fire alarm. You also order a portable extinguisher online and begin to take Salata with you everywhere. You bring Salata with you to the supermarket. You whisk Salata into the barber’s. You snuggle Salata into the bar.

At the bar, Salata hops onto the seat next to you, and you tip the bartender with the jacked-up arms a little extra for keeping quiet. At the bar, you run into your ex-girlfriend who broke your heart and now, raising her eyebrows at Salata, says to you, ‘You got a dragon.’

You reply with something vague about having more time these days, wave her goodbye and then sink into the stool, not having come off any the wittier from the interaction.

You sip your beer. Salata drinks her whiskey. This, of course, gets her more fired up as the evening goes along.

‘Your girlfriend?’ Her tail wraps around the barstool, and she is keeping from coughing out sparks.

‘We dated,’ you reply, trying to sound more casual than you really feel.

‘She’s charming.’

You sip on your beer with purpose.

‘So, why is she hating on dragons?’

‘It’s not personal,’ you say, looking down at your shoes. It isn’t.

Salata insists.

‘I don’t think I should say.’ You really don’t think you should.

Salata nudges you once more; she has a way of convincing you to do things you don’t want to, and you finally tell her the story of when you were gifted a bowl with three fish for your birthday. Ava, your ex-girlfriend, thought it was a fitting present for turning twenty-two. You had been talking about adopting a cat for a while, but she thought fish would be a nice small step to start with. Long story short, you ended up knocking the bowl from your windowsill within weeks of receiving it. The three fish died right before falling on the pavement below. Who knew fish had a fear of heights.

Since then Ava was convinced that you couldn’t take care of anything around you. Especially yourself.

There’s silence in the small bubble around you and Salata. Then you see her bite into her tail. Her shoulders are shaking and so is the laminated menu she’s leaning on. A couple of minutes later, she straightens herself and says, ‘Is that why she dumped you?’

You say no. You’re not sure why she did.

‘You’re a sentimental fool.’ Salata is no longer laughing.

‘I loved her,’ you reply, your head spinning with alcohol.

Salata gazes at you more seriously now and there it is—the sadness emitting from her again. She says, ‘I know.’

***

Each time you try and ask her how she jumped into your flowerpot, Salata’s answer changes. One time, she tells you a long-winded story involving a falafel cart and a pair of scissors. Another, about a very fluffy Persian cat and some Oreos. You can’t help but wonder if she is simply describing the last weird dream she’s had but you are arrested all the same.

***

The plant came into your life by accident. You were with your flatmate who got you into veganism in the first place and grows his own basil. The two of you had gone to a nursery that sells easy-to-take-care-of houseplants such as monstera leaves and thumb-sized succulents that no one can go wrong with, not even you, said your flatmate. You were browsing through pots growing sweet red chillies and dahlias when you spotted a plant with long sword-like leaves. A salesperson caught you looking at it and said, in a chipper voice, ‘It’s fresh from Madagascar!’

Even though you hadn’t had much luck with living things earlier, you put your faith in this plant and brought it home.

***

Unwittingly, slowly, Salata becomes the closest thing you’ve ever had to a sibling. The two of you play video games and drink together. You show her old episodes of cartoon shows you loved while growing up. In a moment of pure laziness, you try to convince her to do the dishes two days in a row, but she simply glares at you. As always, you try to make her listen to your rants about the environment and the world burning down to ashes. Sometimes, she comes up with counterarguments. Many times, she changes the topic or sets something on mild fire. No matter what, she always, always defends meatballs.

One night, drunk from the vodka from your cupboard that the two of you have been sharing, you think of a fun game to play with Salata. You tell her some myths that human beings hold about dragons and she dispels them.

‘That dragons breathe flames?’        

‘Wrong. We spit fire.’

‘That dragons are lucky charms…’

‘My cousin Ben got struck by lightning eight times in three minutes,’ she retorts, munching on popcorn. ‘Next.’

‘That dragons are extinct?’

Salata doesn’t say anything.

You notice that she is quieter than usual and soon, to your surprise, she starts to sob. As she cries, there are small sparks that escape her eyes. You hug her, carefully avoiding getting your t-shirt singed and tell her that everything will be okay.

She doesn’t hug you back.

***

When you wake up the next morning, Salata is gone. You look for her near the fridge with the broken handle. You walk around the apartment with ready-made meatballs. You play the new hit on the radio that annoys you, but you know she likes. Then you take your flatmate’s car to the nursery and return the plant to the same salesperson at the counter.

Sorry. I couldn’t take care of it, you say. I’m sorry.

This story was first published in Gutter Magazine Issue 22

© 2023 Bhavika Govil

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