Iguanodon drags her thumb along her phone, careless, and a new scratch wails across its screen. Her fingers steer between group messages and side conversations, threads of communication she tats around her like lace. Her words are never, ever in the wrong chat. Her acronyms are always understood. Her emojis are on point.
Through the train windows, sanctioned graffiti flashes past. A bronze woman in a crown, a guinea pig in a party hat, a settler colonizer struggling beside a covered wagon.
A single spike piercing glitters in Iguanodon’s left nostril. Through the clouded screen, she deploys a rocketship, a microscope, a fig. Praise hands and clap backs and a beefy “We Can Do It” arm, even though her body can perform none of those actions. The tremors run along the ether and return into her hands.
Iguanodon’s thumbs click furiously. The tremors have shifted. A so-and-so has invited only a partial contact list for Friday. A grab for power.
“She’s so boring,” Iguanodon types and sends it along the wire.
“Srry, wrong box. Not any of you.” Winky face. Angel head.
The tremor runs.
She exits at the red brick box of Pioneer Square. A man in a shapeless coat asks her a question, but his jaw sits crooked and she can’t understand him.
The phone buzzes in her hand. Without reading the screen, she leans toward the man and speaks:
“She’s. So. Boring.”