Convection cooling, check. Evaporative cooling, check.
Aliens would’ve had a field day if they’d abducted me and scanned my brain.
The Earthling is preoccupied with sex, talks to an imaginary friend, and has a strange obsession with environmental control.
Recommendations?
Return the subject to its natural habitat and order an immediate ban on all further species contact.
Agreed. Science Officer, log the quarantine. Astrogator, plot a course for Alpha Centauri. Pilot, break orbit and get us out of here.
Aye, aye, captain.
Maybe we’ll find intelligent life in the next system.
Christy caught the fringe of the conversation and frowned as she tried to decipher it. Fortunately, Leah distracted her before she could hurt herself. She rolled over and threw her arms over her head. Her breasts flattened to almost nothing, although they were still distinctly feminine, more than enough to make me forget the departing aliens.
Ooh, boobies.
Christy covered her mouth and did her best not to laugh. She even managed to compose herself before Leah opened her eyes.
“God, that was exactly what I needed.” She sat up, and her breasts returned to their normal shape. They didn’t sag a bit.
See? Boobies. Big, small, round, flat—
Christy’s eyes flashed. Will you behave!
Leah didn’t notice. “I should probably get cleaned up,” she said. “I smell like a brothel.”
“How would you know?” I wondered aloud. “I mean, have you ever been in a brothel?”
“Funny you should ask. I actually have. It was quite pleasant. You’ll have to ask Erin, though. She tells it better.”
“She tells everything better,” I said with only a trace of bitterness. “She’s a real raconteur, all right.”
“Says the guy who just used the word ‘raconteur’ in a sentence,” Leah chuckled. She started to roll to her knees but immediately stopped.
“What’s the matter?”
“I… um… don’t wanna leak on the bed. God, how much did you shoot? I swear, I can feel it sloshing around. I know that’s kind of disgusting, but…”
“They never mention this in the letters, do they?” I said to Christy, who shook her head.
“What? In Penthouse?” Leah wondered. “They never mention having to pee, either.”
“I always have to pee afterward,” Christy said. “Sabrina says it’s good for you. It helps prevent infections.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Leah agreed. “Be right back.” She pressed her legs together, scooted to the edge of the bed, and headed to the bathroom.
I glanced at my watch.
“What time is it?” Christy asked.
“Almost one. You need a snack?”
“You know me so well.”
“Anything special?”
“Whatever we have. You know what I like.” She glanced toward the door. “You should probably bring enough for all of us. I don’t think she’s used to drinking so much on an empty stomach.”
I nodded and rolled to my feet.
“And maybe something sweet.”
“Peach cobbler?”
She shook her head. “Don’t tell Wren, but I’m sort of sick of peaches. Do we have any fruit compote left? The one with the blackberries? That was yummy.”
“Got it. Fruit compote, don’t tell Wren. Anything else?”
“Something to drink? Do we have any sherry? The one with the funny name?”
“Probably. Anything else?”
“Hmm, something non-alcoholic. Water? Oh, I know! Orange juice. We have a can in the freezer. Would you mind making some?”
“Sure. Anything else?”
“Only one thing.”
“I’m going to need to make a list,” I teased gently.
“Not for this.”
“Oh?”
“Love me forever?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
I bowed low and flourished an imaginary hat, and her eyes crinkled with a smile, warm and affectionate.
“Off you go,” she said.
* * *
I returned twenty minutes later with a fully loaded tray. I’d basically cleaned out the refrigerator and half the pantry. I’d brought a little bit of everything.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” Leah said to Christy.
The girls scooted apart, and I carefully set the tray on the bed between them.
“We don’t kid around where her metabolism is concerned,” I said.
“He doesn’t,” Christy agreed. “He takes very good care of me.”
“I didn’t think I was hungry till I saw all the food,” Leah laughed.
Christy glanced at the small bottle of Pedro Ximénez. Then she surveyed the crowded tray and shot me a grin. “You forgot something.”
“The corkscrew? No, I already opened it.”
Her eyes darted to the bottle. She’d missed that little detail. “Darn!”
“Carter would be proud. You have to let the wine breathe,” I quoted. “Although… he’d probably tell me to decant it.”
“Only, we don’t have any decanters.”
“Right.”
She grinned at his familiar one-word answer.
“What’re you all talking about?” Leah said. “Not Jimmy Carter.”
“No, a friend of ours,” I said. “Carter’s his first name.”
“Okay, so… no crisis of confidence?”
“Huh? You lost me.”
“Oh, oh, I know this one!” Christy said. Then she did a spot-on impression of Jimmy Carter’s soft Georgia accent. “It is a crisis of confidence. It is a crisis that strikes at the very heart and soul and spirit of our national will.”
Leah’s jaw dropped. “How do you do that?”
“I just do.”
“You have to teach me.”
“I don’t know if she can,” I said. “It’s like her art. Yeah, she could teach you the techniques, but it’d still take a lifetime of practice to do what she does.” Even then, you’d need special wiring in your brain.
A whimsical part of me wondered what the aliens would’ve made of Christy.
The female Earthling is also preoccupied with sex. She hears in the visual spectrum and has a strange obsession with the male’s imaginary friend. We have tentatively identified it as his reproductive organ.
Recommendations? Never mind. Pilot! I thought I told you to get us out of here!
Christy pursed her lips and struggled not to laugh. Stop!
Leah noticed this time. “Um… did I miss something?”
“I can’t tell you, ma’am,” I said in an officious voice. “It has to do with aliens. And sex.”
“Of course!” she laughed. “Weekly World News. I mean, what else do aliens care about?”
“Elvis Presley? Oh, and Jerry Falwell. He’s one of them.” I cocked my head and frowned in thought. “Actually, that explains a lot.”
“Explains what? Never mind, you’re worse than my dad!”
“Guilty as charged,” I said. “Anyway, let’s eat.”
“And drink,” Christy said. “Paul, dear, will you…?”
“None for me,” Leah said immediately. “I’m still a little drunk from the whiskey.” She reached for the pitcher of orange juice instead. “Does he do this for you every night?”
“Not every night,” Christy said. “Well, not this much. Normally just veggies or a sandwich. Sometimes an apple and peanut butter.” She grinned and sucked the tip of her finger, in case I’d missed the reference. I hadn’t. Neither had my reproductive organ. He scanned the environment and reluctantly decided we were interested in food more than sex.