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It takes thirty-eight days for you to call S.
She picks up. Her name is Skye. She remembers you.
You’re blushing, furiously, and you’re embarrassed even though she can’t see you. She asks you out to dinner, and you say, I don’t regularly consume food. Would you like to go on a drive?
How about a ride? she asks in response, and you think you might have lost corporeality there for a second.
You duck out and say that you’re going to the grocery store, which no one believes because you have never been to the grocery store in your life, but you zip out the door and are gone.
Riding the motorcycle is the closest you’ve ever come to flying while earthbound, but it’s more than that. All you can see is her pink hair in your face and a glimpse of the starlit sky, but the roar of the engine reverberates in your chest and the air whips your face pink and leaves you gasping. Your arms are wrapped around her waist and that’s the only part of you that’s warm, your arms against her solid body.
She rides long and far, down roads you don’t recognize—though you’re not sure you could recognize anything at a hundred miles an hour; the world to you is ocean air and blurs of dark green and blue, and the mess of pink hair flying in your face.
When she slows and then stops, the world seems more quiet than it’s ever been. You lie on your backs on an outcropping by the sea, and it takes some time before the smaller sounds start to filter in: the waves crashing off in the distance, the rustling of wind in the trees, the lonesome hooting of an owl.
Pearl, she says.
Skye, you say back. It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, to her. Skye.
You’re not...human, are you, she says.
It’s not a question, but you tell her anyway. No.
She’s silent for a while.
(You don’t want her to speak.)
The thought makes you shudder because it’s cruel, but…you don’t want her to be human. You want her to be—
You close your eyes against the sky, the thought, everything. You can’t block out her voice, though. She’s talking about her job, fixing cars and motorcycles, and you imagine her with engine grease on her face and feel an unbidden fondness nestle in your chest.
She asks you if you’ve ever thought about getting your ears pierced. You tell her no, you haven’t; your body is what you make it and you could pierce your ears just by thinking it.
Could be fun, though, she says, apparently unfazed.
Maybe, you say, musing.
She puts out her hand next to yours, offering, in case you want to take it.
You’re not used to being offered things.
You look at the sky again, and your hands stay by your sides, palms flat against the grass. You say, Humans have parents, right? Do you have—parents?
Skye chuckles. Yeah, sure. I don’t see ’em much these days because they live kind of far out, but I talk on the phone with my mom every week. I take my bike down there for Christmas. Her hand is still where she left it. Where are you from?
You stiffen, but reply. We call it homeworld. It’s…on another planet.
You wanna talk about it? Her voice is gentle, undemanding.
Maybe next time, you say. You turn on your side to look at her. The row of piercings on her ear is transfixing when you think about how they were made, a needle through fragile human skin. Her hands are big and calloused, rough from hard work.
(She doesn’t seem like the type to lead an army.)
You exhale, and reach for her hand.