XLII. Dicey

The Little Martian demands to be seen, felt, and heard.

He springs forth upon me, in the form of a rubber balloon, bright neon, stereotypically Martian-shaped, in the middle of a dicey nightclub.

His eyes meet mine through the throng of people, smells, and clinking bottles

The music thumps and slows, as plastic recognises flesh

There is a moment of complete stillness in the storm

I break it with an ecstatic grin

“You're here!”

The plastic stand-in for my Little Martian hums back

“Always.”