Page 10 of Alien Desire
His eyelids creak open. Up close the beauty of his eyes is breathtaking. They draw me closer and for a moment I am hypnotised by the dancing swirl of gold.
Then he breaks the spell by parting his lips in compliance and I pour the water between them. Some trickles down his chin and I hesitate, then wipe it away with the pads of my fingers. His eyes widen at my touch and the rainbow of colours reappears where I’ve touched him, shimmering for a split second before fading. I can’t help but repeat the action, stroking my finger over his cheek and watching the colours swirl in response.
With his eyes locked on mine, he catches my wrist, and I jolt. His grip is firm, although not painful, and the heat has returned to his skin. He brings my hand back to his face and draws a deep breath through his nose, his eyes closing.
When he opens them again, the gold of his eyes have vanished, consumed by the jet black of his pupils and suddenly I am afraid. He says a word I don’t understand and it sends a shiver down my spine.
I tug back my hand and he lets it go.
“I’ll fetch you some food,” I say, scrabbling to my feet and hurrying away.
In the store room, I sink down to sit on one of the crates and catch my breath. My heart is hammering in my chest and my legs shake. I am afraid. This creature is an alien. I do not know his nature or his motive. He may wish to kill and eat me! And once he’s had a taste for human flesh, he may go seeking other humans. Have I unwittingly put my race in danger? Revealed the secret of our existence to a hostile species?
I bury my face in my hands and tell myself to calm down.
My mum used to laugh at what she called my active imagination, but she’d indulge my request to search beneath the bed for monsters anyway, or sit and listen to my fantastical stories. Perhaps in another life, I’d have been a story teller.
Remembering her for just a fleeting moment drowns me in a grief that sweeps away the fear and grounds me. I stand up. I know how to fight. I know how to kill. I may look small but I’m tough. I was the only one to survive that crash. I’ll survive this alien too if it comes to that.
But hopefully it won’t. Hopefully we can help each other.
I search through the supplies for a variety of different foods, having no idea what he might like. I choose a combination of soft and solid, sweet and savoury, all tinned, and I carry them back to him with a bowl and a spoon.
He’s sitting when I return, the blankets bunched around his waist, his hand holding his injury, and he watches me unblinking, his face devoid of emotion as I approach.
“Emma,” he says, as I sit cross legged before him and arrange the tins in a line.
“I brought you food.” He tilts his head as if trying to understand me, but I continue anyway.
It is how my mother used to speak to our pet cat, how I’ve been chatting to Fluffy these past months. Talking to him, even though he doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. I point to the first tin. “Pureed pear,” I explain, “very sweet and easy to eat. It’s what they give babies.”
I remember this from a young couple on the first space station I stayed on. “This is ravioli - it’s meat so good for protein, although, I guess, I don’t know if you eat meat. This is baked beans. I used to love these as a kid. I didn’t know you could still get them.”
I pick up the tin, examine the label and smile. When I place the tin back down and look up to him, he is scrutinising my face. I laugh and heat rises to my cheeks. “I’m guessing you don’t have a problem with staring in your culture.”
He says nothing but points at the final tin.
“Ahh, now this is custard and it is probably the most delicious thing that exists in all the universe. My mum used to make it for me on special occasions. It tastes amazing with stewed apples but I haven’t had one of those in years. I checked the store and unfortunately no tins of apples.” I sigh, and he mimics the noise. “Oh, that’s not a word … it’s a … nevermind. What would you like to try?” I hold my palm out to the food.
He picks up the tin of baked beans, the one I’d examined, and brings it to his face. He sniffs it, then shakes it, then places it back down. He repeats the process with each can and I can tell he is unsure what these are or what he should do with them. I smother a smile beneath my fingers, but then he shudders and I remember he is sick and I need to feed him.
“Let’s go for the custard,” I tell him, snapping the tag and peeling off the lid. A sweet aroma curls from the yellow liquid within and he leans a little closer to see. I dip the spoon inside, scooping up the thick liquid and offer it to him. He takes the spoon like someone who has used similar implements before and raises it to his lips. They are softer looking than his skin and smooth and they part to accept the food.
He makes a noise that signals his pleasure, a deep purr similar to that of a cat, and my shoulders loosen and my spine relax. Dragging the tin closer to himself, he rolls carefully back down, tilting a little to one side and scoops out spoonful after spoonful of the stuff.
Opening the ravioli, I rest it on my lap and eat with him. I haven’t eaten myself for a day. The urgency of rescuing this creature, of caring for him, has made me forget my own hunger, but now it hits me. I have to force myself to eat slowly in front of my guest and not gulp the whole thing down like a starving dog.
When he’s done, he pushes the empty container aside and lies out flat on his back. Then he lifts his arm and stares at me.
“Emma,” he says, followed by that strange word in his own language. The one he’d said earlier that I don’t understand.
“Yes?” I say.
“Emma,” he repeats, patting the ground beside him.
“Oh … no,” I say, suddenly understanding what he’s asking. “That was just to …”
His skin has returned to that pale translucent hue and he tries his best to disguise the fact he’s shivering.
