Page 37 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
This is not conducive to tactical advantage, as my mind reminds me.
But logic does not fully apply.
I set my mug down and step off the porch, crossing the street with slow, deliberate steps. The dew squishes beneath my boots. Earth smells like life—fresh grass, damp soil, herbicide. I inhale deeply. It steadies me in a way I can't explain.
She glances up.
“Morning,” she says, voice hoarse and soft.
“Good morning,” I reply, voice tuned lower—an echo of respect. “Your plants.”
She smiles—warm, but laden with something. “You’ve seen me do this a dozen times. Pretty sure I still do it wrong.”
“Plants are not strategic targets,” I say dryly.
She laughs, a short exhalation that somehow makes my heart rip wider.
“I wish they were. Might get more pride out of them.”
I crouch beside her, resisting the urge to take her hand. Instead, I inspect the tomato stem she’s holding. Tiny yellow flowers buds—promise of fruit. The stem is a little weak.
“Needs more nitrogen,” I say.
She sits back, surprised. “You know fertilizer?”
“Chemical catalyst. I studied common soil compositions on Earth via library network.”
She gives me a flat look. “You downloaded a gardening manual?”
“It was... information I deemed necessary.”
She rolls her eyes in the way moms do when they’re annoyed but know you mean well. “Fine. Here’s the simple version: feed them fish emulsion in the early morning, compost at night.”
I tuck this into my mind. Human rituals are strange but sometimes effective.
We stand for a moment in silence. The morning breeze rustles leaves overhead. Somewhere, a bird cries.
I want to ask her many things—the questions crowding in my mind like insurgents—but the gut insists I hold them back.
I nod toward her yard. “Your domino.”
She frowns at the plants, then at me.
“Everything okay?”
I hesitate. This is new territory—confession.
I tilt my head. “I feel... protective.”
She laughs again. “That’s called caring.”
I blink.
“People do that for each other,” she explains. “Neighbors help neighbors.”
I digest that. Sum it up slowly. “Neighbors?”
She stands and smooths her gardening gloves, placing them near my feet. “Yep. We watch each other’s houses when vacations happen. We trade tools and sugar. And sometimes, we stand guard—literally or metaphorically.”
