DRAGON DAY

Fiammetta didn't realize she was a dragon at once that morning. Her body seemed quite normal; for a woman of that age, of course. Not that she enjoyed staring too long at it in the bathroom mirror. She didn’t. It wasn’t an age thing, either. She had never liked mirrors very much. There wasn’t a unicorn bone in her in that regard. No fair maid with a mirror would ever be able to lure Fiammetta into anything. But anyway, everything looked normal. No scaly skin. Again, no more than usual. Her breath wasn’t particularly sulfur-scented either. I mean… Well, you know what I was about to write, so let’s skip that bit, shall we? This is microfiction, after all.

In short: everything looked and felt, if not great, at least normal that morning.

It was only after she sat down for breakfast and Hugo, her husband, decided that it was the right moment to let her know he’d be moving in with their daughter’s yoga instructor the next weekend that she felt a sort of queasiness that turned into heartburn and finally a terrible urge to burp. Which she did; vaporizing Hugo’s head with one clean burst of fire.

Later, she would tell the inspectors it had been the cliché of it all that had made her feel utterly queasy in the first place.

Of course, Hugo hadn’t let Fiammetta finish her coffee first, before announcing his good news. Very unwise. Never put yourself between a dragon and their poison of choice. It spells disaster with capital letters.

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