crispy meows

BEEEEELCH! Goes the little Martian as he takes another swig of peach kombucha.

He has just plowed through a glass box full of boiled eggs and is currently polishing off a strange packet of crisps called Crispy Meows.

“An odd chip for an odd chap,” I giggle, and he looks up at me, a little zoned out as he shrugs.

“Such is life,” he replies, as though he is an automated bot and not my extraterrestrial little buddy.

“Why so monotone, LM?”

He forces a little smile. “Who, me? I’m A-okay!”

I glance at his eyes. They look a little puffy — but not like he’s been crying. More like maybe he’s been squeezing them shut too tight. His T-shirt is an unflattering yellow, and he barely notices as a splash of kombucha rests orange against it.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

The little Martian shrugs again. He is a shrugger, and I’m a bugger.

“I don’t know — I guess I’ve been sleepier of late,” he confesses.

“Think you’re coming down with something?”

The Martian sniffles, swipes at his little cheek, and shrugs. I didn’t know he had it in him — but his shoulders are of superhuman capacity, with enough shrugs to outnumber hugs.

“Not really. I just want to sleep all the time. I don’t feel like being awake, or doing the dishes, or drinking coffee, just to get to work to go drink some more coffee..."

The Martian stops to catch his breath.

“Vladmir and Viola, huh?”

The Martian meets my eyes, stretches his lips into a weak, watery little smile and, believe it or not, shrugs again.

“That must hurt….”

“It does, little sapien. It really, really does.”

“Look on the bright side. You’re all the way here on Earth and they’re on Mars. There’s plenty you can do to keep your mind busy. Distance can be a good thing, you know.”

“It isn’t my mind that needs to be kept busy, silly girl.” He crinkles  his nose, pushes the rest of the chips away. “It’s my heart. My silly-billy heart.”

I pull the little Martian in for a hug, let him rest his buggy eyes against my shoulder, and don’t say a word when I feel my shirt get a little snotty with his tears.

“LM, people are passing ships. We can’t hold onto them.”

“But I’m alone. Alone in this silly sea. Just me… all me.”

I nod. I know the feeling.

“Here. “I hand him a plastic duck. “A buoy! To rest on while you float.”

The Martian laughs, despite himself. 

Thursday goes along its merry way as we stop to rebuild our little life rafts — like glistening fish running from sparkling sharks in the dark.