Our Flower by S M Matthews

Our Flower by S M Matthews

Author:S M Matthews [Matthews, S M]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-10-09T04:00:00+00:00


I’m spending the evening with Titus, which means after dinner we get to have Secret Dessert Club and now a horror ‘Vid’. I have discovered that although everything looks totally real and it should be scary, the alien concept of horror is the same and yet totally different. They still have power cuts, and still split up for totally stupid reasons, there’s always ridiculously suspenseful music, but there’s almost never any gore. Just monsters with apparent superpowers who always have a good reason. Like…‘She was protecting her babies all along!’ Or ‘It was just hungry, that’s all!’. And honestly, because I’m already in space, I now don’t know what’s real or what isn’t. Some of this is real to them; and some of it is made up by them and I have no frame of reference. Is that a made-up alien? Or just a species I’ve never seen before? Can they really suck the life out of actual stars? I just let it wash over me unless something makes me really curious. The last time was ‘Can you actually make little wormholes to travel through?’ No, was the answer, no they cannot.

Titus likes to make a running commentary, and he has a wonderfully sarcastic sense of humour sometimes.

He also likes to cheer for the monster.

We settle down with snacks – of course there are snacks – and he gives me a blanket as he dims the lights. For the first time...I’m a little nervous, this sort of feels like a date night.

It’s never really felt like this before, and I find myself less interested in the movie and more with the flurry of butterflies I have in my stomach. My mind drifts back to what Maisy said. She seemed so certain that they were interested in me.

What if tonight he actually shows an interest in me? I mean, one day we might...you know. And they are aliens...and they have two...thingies, Maisy said. Titus lays out on his back on the sofa, knees bent, little (compared to the rest of him) foot paws resting flat on the sofa next to my thigh.

His head is on the arm of the sofa and his eyes are at half lidded. I haven't really been listening, but now I think he’s been quieter than usual this evening. He looks tired. He yawns hugely, and it always conjurers the same image of a big cat on a nature documentary.

His tails flick into my lap and I find I don’t mind at all. I start combing through the tufts with my fingers. They are moving languidly in my lap, I brush away with my fingertips, but should I try to hold one trapped in my hand it flicks powerfully away before coming back again. He stretches and yawns again, seemingly oblivious. The stretch lifts his top a little, and that bright white tummy fur draws my eye and makes my fingers itch to touch it.

The brief thought is hotly followed by the one which always nags at me; what if they don’t even want me.



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