It was noon. The sun was bright, the air was hot and dry. Usually, I would have been home, having lunch and waiting for the heat to go down so I could spend the afternoon outside with my friends, skateboarding on the street—but that day I found myself wondering through deserted streets alone.
I was hungry and thirsty, and had no memory of home or friends. I just kept walking, feeling the loneliness of the place, and feeling hungry. Eventually, I came to a corner and turned—I turned into the dragon’s street.
There he was—he had been waiting for me—the dragon with seven heads. Its body was covered with red scales, its long necks were moving like snakes, and one of its heads was showing its fangs at me, like a dog about to bite.
His black eyes glanced down, directing my attention to a candy on the street—it was still wrapped. The dragon did not speak, but I knew what he wanted: he wanted me to eat the candy.
I was so hungry I felt faint, and my stomach was hurting. I reached to the candy, unwrapped it, and put it in my mouth. But just as I tasted its sweetness, I remembered I was not supposed to eat it—I was not supposed to eat the candy the dragon had for me, so I spit it out.
I was still hungry. I cried and bent over in pain. The candy was there on the hot and dirty asphalt, covered with my saliva—but the dragon still wanted me to eat it.
This happened many years ago, but it’s still fresh in my mind.
I’d like to tell you I walked away and left that candy there, that I left the scene and never went back— but I realize there’s been plenty of times when I’ve gone back to lick the candy on the dragon’s street.