I use to love snakes. Their cute little snout and how they movement seems so meticulous. When I was a kid I use to run to the snake exhibit at the zoo. I would name all the snakes giving them personalities. My favourite was Indian Jones the beautiful black and gold pit viper who was very sassy. When I was 15 my parents finally surprised me with a corn snake which was quickly named Diehl after years of begging. Diehl is very lazy and spoiled rotten brown snake with red diamonds cascading down his back.

That long love of snakes quickly soured the moment I begrudgingly opened my eyes to the soft morning air. I let out a long yawn before immediately freezing as I feel a weight moving on my chest. Looking down a large head of a light brown snake of living desert sand with two little horns sitting above catlike eyes pops out of my light blue comforter. The large snake cocks his head trying to look cute as I mummer, “Shit” under my breath. Please tell me I’m dreaming and a Saharan horned viper is not currently laying on my chest.

“Morning Isabella,” says an airy male voice. I quickly give the glass vivarium sitting across the room a dirty look.

“You’re a shit guard dog,” I say with my eyes. In response Diehl slithers into a plastic cave as if reminding me that he is not a dog. Grouchy old man. Slowly I move my eyes across my small New York studio finally landing on a tan man sitting casually on my Craigslist couch a purple tint glints in his eyes as ours meet.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” I angry whisper. Only two things flood my mind; I’m going to strangle him if I get this snake off my chest and how am I going to get this snake off of me.