Page 67 of I Think I’m in Love with an Alien

“I’m not sure. But there are folks who see conspiracies everywhere.” She shakes her head with a twist of her mouth that doesn’t wholly seem like a smile. “In your case, however, the reason the security cameras fail really is…‘because aliens.’”

Since I’ve been reading long, involved screeds written by such humans on the Aliens Among Us site, I comprehend the humor and let out an amused click. Now I need not stifle my customary auditory cues in the interest of concealing my strangeness.

“FoxSmolder would be exultant to hear it.” I name a conspiracy theorist on the website who makes the most illogical arguments about extraterrestrials influencing culture on 97-B throughout the ages.

The simplest rebuttal is, why would we bother? Such arguments assume that humans are, in the local vernacular, a big deal. But there can be no reasonable discourse with certain individuals.

Jen laughs. “Wouldn’t it be wild if they were here?”

“I can’t say I’m too interested in a personal encounter.”

“Me either.”

I want to be transparent with her. “Did you have other questions?”

“Mainly about your work, I guess. You told me a little before, but I’m interested in the details, if you don’t mind sharing.”

“Once I acquired appropriate documentation, I registered on a site for those proficient in digital work. I wrote a few programs and then automated programs to write more code. The processes here are extremely simple, unlike the crystalline matrices I worked with as a child.”

That was rudimentary education, and my people didn’t even focus on the sciences. Jen would be absolutely amazed to learn that Jaz comes from the techiest civilization I know, with everything automated and constant innovation. Ironic, when Jaz might have prospered where I was born, given her love of music.

“And then you got paid online?”

“Yes. I set up an account with a financial app that didn’t require a video check. They accepted photos of my identification documents as proof that I am a legal resident.”

“So legally speaking, Tamzir Jaarn is a U.S. citizen.”

“Unless they do a deep dive and audit the system records. Someone very skilled might detect my tampering, but if the authorities haven’t come looking for me by now, it seems that I didn’t set off any internal alarms.”

“Well played. Now you can run for president.” She blinks twice. “Wait, don’t do that. Too much scrutiny would be bad. The camera thing would become a major issue.”

Her concern that I will decide to govern this nation—or never doubting that I’m capable of accomplishing that—entertains me vastly. Apart from Oona, the rest of my family considers me to be a sorrowful case of missed potential. I could have done so much more with my life, had I chosen to devote myself to art instead of chasing the next stimulating experience. In their view, I have embraced hedonism and chosen to consume rather than create. I can’t say that I disagree with them entirely, but no art form ever spoke to me sufficiently.

In my bleak moments, I have wondered whether I was born without the “creation” gene. I’ve found myself at my happiest while studying something and recording observations, but my family never urged me to pursue such interests. Is it possible that one could spend their entire life searching for where they belong?

It seems that I’ve done that anyway.

Her jaw opens, her mouth stretching wide. Per my studies, it’s a yawn, which seems to perplex local scientists. I’ve perused a number of theories regarding why humans perform this behavior, but general consensus agrees that weariness can cause it.

“Should we get some rest?” I ask.

“Are you okay sharing the bed?”

“I don’t sleep in the same way humans do. You may find my repose disturbing. But I won’t move, and I shouldn’t trouble you.”

“I can be a restless sleeper. Maybe I should ask if I’ll bother you.”

The polite response would be to say that she won’t disturb me. But I can’t know that for certain. I offer the next best assurance. “We can see how it goes. This is new territory for both of us,” I say.

Jen rises from the bed and turns back the covers. I find the human obsession with covering their bodies very strange. If it’s not street clothing, it’s bed clothing. And then there are special fabrics to adorn their sleeping surfaces. Not to mention jewels that are physically inserted in their bodies and inks that permanently mark their skin. But perhaps if I didn’t have my own colors and patterns already, I would design them.

She goes into the bathroom for a while, readying herself for sleep. I hear more water sounds. After switching off the lights, Jen finally gets into bed, settling in with a contented exhalation. Human rituals fascinate me. They use water for so many things.

“Something else occurred to me,” she says.

“What?”

“You don’t absorb sunlight like a plant, do you? Because otherwise, what the heck are you eating?”