My Boyfriend is a Bigfoot?

Chapter Six

The conversation that ensued (and indeed the weeks that followed it) was perhaps the most compelling testament to my lack of penchant for thinking things through of all my life experiences to that point, and the competition was steep. In culinary school, I'd once presented an avant-garde monstrosity of a cake whose uppermost tier was to be flambéed before being served. Upon execution, the sprinklers set off and destroyed everyone's assignments, leaving mine in particular a heap of soggy ash. There's never, in actuality, a good reason to flambé anything, unless you're among the particular demographic of people who consider 'looking neat' a good reason to do something. There's more than a couple ways to achieve a similar result without employing such hazard. I would go on to attribute the elaborate ballet of neurotransmitters that had landed me within spitting distance of a fully-fleshed Sasquatch to the same character flaw that had, some years prior, led me to set a cake on fire just to watch it burn.

I attempted to convey some impression of composure, forcing sound up my throat. "Are you going to hurt me?" My volume hovered only just above a whisper.

It shook its head.

I nearly fell. Of all the things I'd expected, an actual response was not among them. "Did you just shake your head?"

It nodded.

I gasped. The realms of communication were open to us, limited as they were. "You understand me." I didn't sound convinced.

It nodded again.

"Can you speak?"

It hesitated, and then shook its head. A low, guttural growl hummed from the base of its throat. I thought of Chewbacca. Then I thought of Koko the Gorilla.

"I have so many questions. I don't know where to start. Did you carry me up the road after I fell?"

It looked somehow remorseful, apologetic. Then it nodded.

All of the fear fizzled to nothing, and released its tense grip on my nerves. I felt like I could breathe again. I had a thousand things to ask, and now faced the challenge of narrowing them to the few that could be answered with a straight yes or no.

"I'm... Blair," I said, gesturing towards myself. "Do you... have a name?"

It nodded.

It understood English. I reasoned that it might not have been so much of a stretch to suspect its name may be legible to English speakers. "Do you know the alphabet?" I asked.

It nodded. A thousand more questions came to mind. I suspected that some incredibly secretive human, perhaps even a group of humans, had taught it our language. Had someone taught it to read, as well?

"Okay. I'm going to recite the alphabet, and you nod at me when I get to the first letter of your name. Then I'll start again, and you stop me at the second, so on and so forth. Make sense? Would that... be all right?"

It nodded twice.

I took a breath. Before I began, I checked over my shoulder for anyone for a silhouette looming in one of the windows, or a figure moving to approach me. We were alone. I suspected everyone was asleep. "Okay. A, B—"

It nodded.

"B? The first letter is B?"

It gave another quick, curt nod.

I started again. I got to 'R' before it stopped me.

"B-R?"

It confirmed the second letter.

I began again, and it stopped me immediately.

"A..?"

It nodded.