Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 51862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
My brother Arkan is always saying how we have to communicate very simply to humans because there’s too much going on inside them that they can’t explain.
“Why did you refuse?”
“Because men want to be served,” she says. “And they are boring. They think chopping wood and drinking beer is all a husband needs to do to be a good partner. This house belonged to my grandmother, and now it belongs to me. I have never needed any man to maintain myself. The women trade with me, and I am able to get everything I need. I’ve never needed a man.”
“You do not need me either,” I say. “But I do need you, my pet.”
“You need me?”
“Of course. If I were to lose you, I would destroy the entirety of the universe in my rage, so I need you so I do not have to do that.”
“Oh.”
I wonder if I scare her. I probably should. But she is not tense in my arms, and I do not scent any chemical signals that would indicate she is trying to hide fear.
“I think I should make you more to eat,” she says. “That will barely be an appetizer for you. You need some meat inside you.”
I could say the same to her, but I am hungry. And so must she be.
“Make enough for the both of us,” I instruct her. “I want to eat a meal with you.”
She slides off my lap and goes to do what I told her to do. She seems so perfectly obedient already. I do not know if I will ever have a chance to discipline her as she seems to think she will enjoy.
Her next offering is a more involved dish with meat and vegetables. I sit at the table and I watch her work. At some point it occurs to me that I perhaps should help, but she seems content to prepare the meal herself, and I am gaining great pleasure from watching her cook.
“I hope you like this,” she says.
“Of course I will like it. You made it for me. But I thought you did not want to serve a man?” I ask the last question with a little hint of a smirk.
“You are not a man, and you saved my life. And everybody else’s. I’ll make you a couple of dinners at least,” she says. “It feels different with you. It feels… nice.”
She sits down beside me with her own, smaller plate and together we begin eating. I have not shared a meal like this since before I was sent to prison. To be in a place of safety and sanctuary, with someone soft and sweet, and to be nourished in body, mind, and soul by this simple creature is a joy I will never forget.
Emily
I watch him as he eats, and it seems to me that a whole slew of emotions are going chasing over his big alien features. I wonder if he really likes it, or if he’s just eating it to be polite.
“Is it okay?”
“It is more than okay,” he says in a voice resonant with emotion. “It is perfect. This is perfect. If I were to be ripped away from this place and sent to the deepest prison pit, this memory alone would sustain me.”
I can see he has suffered. It is written in the marks across some of his scaling that I now realize must be scars, it is in the depths of his eyes, and I hear it in his voice.
“You need some pie,” I say. “We both need some pie.”
Pie takes hours to make, but fortunately I have some to hand, made two days ago. A thick goat butter crust, and a filling of apple and cherries. The recipe has been handed down from mother to daughter in my family for generations, and I swear it is even better reheated a day or two after baking than when it is fresh.
I top it with the last of the ice cream I’ve been saving for a special occasion and present it to Zain.
He takes a bite and I watch as his very alien, scaled, fanged face transforms into an expression of pure ecstasy.
“This is food!? It tastes like a drug.”
“It’s good food,” I say. “Well, not good for you, but it tastes good. Puts curves on you.”
“I cannot wait to have curves,” he says. I am not entirely certain if he is joking or not.
He is all sinew, muscle, and scars, his massive bulk just barely sustained by the creaking old wood chair, his knees up almost all the way to the height of the table itself. He makes my place feel like a doll’s house, and he makes me feel like a doll — a soft and tender plaything he could so easily break if he was not careful.