Nothing. Flip. Swish. Flip.

Nothing. Flip. Swish. Flip.

Hmmm, that’s interesting. Nothing. Flip.

Here I am at the j-o-b. It's not such a bad job. It pays the rent. Short order-cook at the Crashdown. The title is about as important sounding as it is. It’s like a scary glimpse into my future. Pays the rent. Keep telling myself that. Sometimes even the utilities. A little Snapple and those all so important, Cheez Doodles.

I sighed heavily and look through the serving window. Damn. Still have customers. I Hate Sundays. They’re slow. But not slow enough to close, so…….yeah, you got it: Flip. Swish. Flip.

Mondays. I hate them. The weekend starts and before you know it, it's over and Monday's here again. It's back to school. I can only work one weekend day. Well, in theory. The rest of the time I’m supposed to be doing homework, studying, planning for a future of doing something. I used to have another job at Meta-Chem, but after they killed my friend, tried to kill me, almost killed Isabel and Valenti, did kill Max, and it burned down, it just didn’t seem like such a great place to work anymore. So I do my job. Flip burgers at the greasy Crashdown. I should have stayed on welfare. Christ.

Hey, just excuse me here, all right? I'm having a freakin' mid-life crisis this morning! Look, at 18, I'm due, ok? Cut me some slack. Most 18 year olds are snug in bed wondering if mom washed their favorite jeans, if Mary Lou will blow them at the next Rave, and how the hell they explain away having their hand down their girlfriend’s best friend’s underwear. In their happy little minds run the usual excuses. Dog ate my homework.

Assholes. Just admit you didn’t do it like the rest of us losers while the overachieving Liz Parkers of the world hop up and down in their seats with arms in the air, ‘Oh, oh, oh, I did it, Mrs. Bumfuck, I got the assignment! Can I have a golden star?’….aw jeez.

You might ask, if you were foolhardy or had a death wish, what I do on my weekends that makes me hate Mondays so much. If you ask nicely, I just might tell you. Oh what the fuck.... I'll tell you anyways.

Well you know what? I have no frickin' idea what makes my weekends so special. No idea other than the fact that I'm not chained to the grill at the Crashdown, picking up extra shifts for more cash, catheter practically inserted up my dick so I don’t have to stop working. That little order wheel going around and around as the ‘girls’ come and rattle off order after order. Yeah, today, every one gets Saturn Rings because I’m on a Saturn Rings binge.

On the weekend, I get away from school, and working at the Crashdown can be a quick shift…well, not technically. I still pull a Saturday shift for extra cash. The bonus is it gets me away from my friend who moved in and looks to be staying, and finally my girlfriend. Okay, so she’s not my girlfriend anymore. The 'working at night thing' I can handle. Its only threat is to bore me to death. The girlfriend thing? Well, that's none of your business. I won’t talk about it, and refuse to think about it. I’m handling it. And then Monday rolls around, the frickin’ week begins. Piss up a rope.

But my weekends are pretty run of the mill. Boring you might say.

Boring you might definitely say.

Take this past weekend. Friday night I picked up Chinese food and a video tape from Blockbuster Video on the way home. "Batman Forever." Ever seen it? Don't bother. Shit. Fell asleep in front of the TV. Had a tremendously bizarre dream featuring yours truly as Batman and Maria as Robin, the Girl Wonder. Don't even ask. Blow me. Ouch! Wrong choice of words, soldier. Who knew Robin was so little and was so…limber? I only fell out of bed twice, and didn’t break anything, not like the Spider-man dream. Thank God for small, weird favors, I suppose.

Saturday, I drove the bike over to the garage and had Kyle give her a tune up. It hasn’t worked right since. That was the high point of the weekend. I like to think that I love my bike more than I love Maria DeLuca, but…nope, the bike doesn’t do it for me like she does. I’d much rather ride her. Jesus. At any rate, I tuned the bike up and then went for a long drive. My baby purred, sputtered, and had an attitude too. Again just like Maria. She really does. Yeah, Saturday was perfect. Well, during the day.

Eventually I had to go back to the apartment. I almost thought about calling someone for a little company. The only problem with that idea was - I always have company, just not company I want. I came to that rude realization when I was making myself a light dinner of nachos, extra cheese, sour cream, and a bottle of Tabasco. Who the hell could I call? I hadn't been out with anyone in a fucking age.

After Maria tossed my ass to the wayside, I even stopped going out with the boys. Didn’t realize it at the time, but having her and them made life so much more interesting, and once it was just them, well it wasn’t that much fun anymore. So basically I haven’t had anyone for a while. Well, except Maria about four nights ago, but I don't want to go there. Hey, a guy gets...well you gotta get laid once in a while. Maria was available and willing. OK? So it really didn’t start that way, but it seems to always end there. I see her. She sees me. We sort of talk. Lots of silence, low voices, and I watch her mouth, as she watches mine. And then it’s hours of hot wild monkey sex, that doesn’t mean anything because we’re not together, except for when we are together, then we’re really, really stuck together. She takes my breath away. I guess I could have called her if I knew where in the hell she was at the moment. Hell. Max said she had a concert tonight, some gig. Figures. Fuck Michael and go off and do a concert. Well, there is precedent after all. God damn.

Anyway, I had returned Batman Forever earlier in the day and brought home Casino. Sharon Stone. So, I was going to get some feminine company after all, even if she was only a virtual blonde. So what if I pretend she's Maria? I poured myself a cherry coke laced with Tabasco after dinner (well before dinner too but we won't dwell on that point, I’m thinking of switching to diet), cranked up the VCR and eventually cranked up myself as well. I mean as in priming the pump. Choking the chicken. Shaking hands with Mr. Johnson. Beef jerky. Oh, I know a million of them. A litany of idiotic terms for masturbation.

Yeah, I beat off. What the hell do you expect? Hey, if you were one of my friends, would you want to talk to me with a massive case of blue balls when it was your turn to try to make polite conversation? Fuckin' A you wouldn't. You'd want me to beat my meat to get some relief. So consider it a public service. Michael spanks the monkey and you all get a nice easy ride. And I'm nothing if not the model public servant. Yes sir. Oh, and I almost forgot - I fell asleep in front of the TV again. Well that was until Max and a giggling Liz came in, and no amount of self-manipulation was going to clear my sour disposition. Those two trying to be sexy and fun is enough to turn me celibate. I get exhausted just watching them. My eyes cross, I can’t stop yawning, and next thing I know, it’s morning. Max and Liz, the dreamy kids are a cure all for insomnia.

Sunday I slept in. Dreamt about Maria as Sharon Stone and Maria as Robin, the Girl Wonder, and they were doing each other while I watched. What the fuck? Never mind. Read the Sunday paper. Ran some errands, including grocery shopping. Some kid laughed at me in the store. Little ankle biting dick. Yeah, well - ever see me pushing a grocery cart? I suppose...Returned the video tape. Went home. Cleaned my apartment. Sort of. I pushed all the crap into one corner, so I can see the TV better. Cleanliness is next to godliness.

At around 2 PM I finally went to work at the Crashdown. The Sunday until closing shift. Oh joy! Oh rapture! Oh Pepcid AC what would I do without you? Shit on a shingle. Now you know why I hate Mondays. They follow a long boring weekend of nothing.

I had to get ready for school, make my self neat and presentable. Yeah. That means I hit the snooze alarm six times, blew the shit out of it the seventh time, and got up late. Smelt my sweaters until I found one that didn’t make my nose hairs curl, put that on and was out the door. What about my hair? Shit. That’s why I love my bike. It sort of takes care of the hair thing. So here I was all ready to put my nose to the grindstone.

Are you seeing a pattern here? Television has become my life. I arrange my work around the latest Nickelodeon marathon. I’m starting to see test patterns in my dreams. I think I might have ordered a Ginzo Super Steel Whopper Chopper Knife and Dicing Machine in my sleep the other night. Oh, late night infomercials while you sleep. I’m starting to hate those infomercials. No way. But I am. I can't help it.

And why can't I help it? I can't because like I said, my weekends are boring, routine, mundane, and God help me, lonely. I hate to admit it but I am terribly lonely. A...a man doesn't like to admit something like the fact that he has no one. Not a single soul to... to share his life, such as it is, with. Loneliness isn't supposed to bother men. We're supposed to be strong. Grin and bear it. Stay stoic. Right. I try. I really do. But I fail, and I fail miserably. I miss Maria. We were in love once. Hell, I'm so desperate sometimes I even admit that we are still in love, because we are. I feel her, and I know she feels me. And what about those dreams with her doing that thing she does...Jesus. So what is my problem? Maria. Fucking Maria. Shit, I don’t mean literally, because that isn’t a problem.

It was never easy with Maria. Not from the first moment she stood in the alley standing slightly behind Liz Parker. Hell, I could hear her knobby knees shaking from where I stood. She should have been a pushover. I should have been able to intimidate her. Both Isabel and I thought she would be a piece of cake. I stand humiliated in that thought. The woman had me over so many ways I can’t even reach all the places that needed iodine. Fear was a face she understood, but it took me a while to understand that fear just made her stubborn. Determined. It was all there. She took a lot, but there was always a line drawn that firmly said, ‘Do not step over’. I stepped over it a few times. It cost me dearly.

So, here I am Michael ‘Only the Lonely’ Guerin, arriving for school bright and early on Monday. Shit, okay! So I’m late. Only about twenty minutes. Traffic was heavy. Damn. Fuck it! So I slept in. Sue me. Good morning to my world. You're welcome to it.

"Good morning, Mr. Guerin," Mrs. Darcy, the neo-Nazi at the metal detector greets me. She is the latest, of the starched white underwear wearing, grammar Nazis hired to correct, harass, and lord over the language miscreants of Roswell. Hell, I can use proper grammar, but her attitude just makes me want to spit. I’d rather die a thousand deaths, hung from a hanging participle rather than give her a moment of believing she corrected me.

Other than that, she's a real peach, our Mrs. Darcy. Efficient, professional, friendly as lice, armed, and dangerous. She's also married. That will be a source of amazement to me for all times. There. Out there, somewhere is a Mr. Darcy. God, rest his soul. I bet his name is Harvey. He weighs only half of Mrs. Darcy’s two hundred and fifty pound bulk, wears thick framed glasses, and his polyester socks sag about his ankles. You’re a dead man, Harvey. It’s not looking good. When she's on the door frisking the juvenile delinquents, masquerading as high school students, Mondays are a little easier to take.

There have been stories you know. They are best not to recount, but rather just take the well meaning warning in earnest. Mrs. Darcy? Scary.

"Good, morning, Mrs. Darcy. How's Gigi doing?" Her dog. Big thing. Gigi, you thought toy poodle, huh? I think he might have eaten Mr. Darcy, but prudence is the better part of valor. It is best not to know. I know. You’re asking yourself how do I come to know so much about Mrs. Darcy? Well, an unkind soul would assume that I’m late a lot. Now get that out of your head. I’ve reformed. I make a point of showing up on time at least once a week, and if I look to be failing in that goal, I just skip it all together.

"Oh, he's fine. Whatever he ate must have worked itself through. He's back to being a hog again," she replies waving me on through. “You’re late…again! Try to correct that, Mr. Guerin.”

Gigi. Darcy's 150 pound Rottweiler. Seems Mrs. Darcy had a little problem with the sex early on, and the monster man-eater with a feminine name is actually a he. Tragic. That would make me mean too if someone named me Michelle. Anyways, Gigi ate something he shouldn't have eaten. Probably the fucking paper boy. I still maintain Mr. Darcy, but like I said who’s going to ask? The dog's a monster. I saw her with him once. He's big enough to ride. Hell, my bike goes down, I know where I’m going. How would you like to contend with something that big having Montezuma's revenge? Darcy's a better man then I am. She also has bushier eyebrows as well. Jesus, a little tweeze, if you please. Spare me from mammoth mutts with crap attacks. I have enough problems with my own...well I'll spare you that bit of info too. Let's just say I should own stock in Metamucil, the good old’ rib sticking fiber. Only cooking worse than mine, and a diet of greasy Crashdown food, is anything potentially killed, cooked, and saturated in grease by Max Evans.

I move on to my locker. Turned the lock. Waited. And waited. Waited some more. My locker. A mystery. It sometimes opens. And sometimes it doesn’t. There were things in there. Mysterious things. Things that have never seen the light of day. Yeah. My books. So every day, as I fight with the combination lock, knowing I could easily open it with a wave of my hand, I ask myself, why? Do I really want those books?

"Good morning, Mr. Guerin."

I glance around and then down to the side. Oh jeez, look who's here.

"Mr. Campbell."

Fuck a duck and run for cover people! It's the Principal. He rules West Roswell High like he is commanding Operation Desert Storm, and yeah, we are just that lame. Everything with him is very ‘gung ho’, and perhaps I have him to personally thank for ridding me of any ambition I had to become a soldier. First thing I learned was I hated discipline. Sure being a Commander sounds sexy. Sounds real good. Co-mman-der. Yeah, yeah, yeah…so I hear it in my head in Maria’s sultry voice. So what? I have fantasies. They usually involve Maria in military garb, torn, skimpy, tight, under me…I mean under my command of course, calling me Sir or Commander, ready to take my every command. Righteous. Well, think again, pause, and then think some more. I’m not fit to play second in command to Max Evans, King of Antar. I hate following orders. I hate having followers, unless it's Maria following my every order. God, do I have some specifically detailed orders to give her too! And she follows them with a smile, oh, and a very sexy lick of those beautiful lips. Yeah, fat chance of that happening. Man, peel off! This is my head, my thoughts, and my fantasies; I can have it my way.

Okay. I’m not testy. Just tired. Anyway, about being a great Commander and my desire not to be one anymore…..well it comes with a big problem. Yeah like one huge word, or more specifically, I hate being responsible for things. Responsibility. I hate that. I hate feeling like I’m letting people down, or just stupid and not good enough to do it right. It sucks, but there it is. I’m much better on my own. Army of one. Guerin’s Grunts. Okay, so I automatically add Maria in that army of one simply because I would love to have her grunting, but hey, I think I covered that ground so…you know, say no more. Well, occasionally I let Kyle into my little army of one, but only if I have to. Enough said.

So anyway the Big Dog, Campbell hands me my daily detention slip, lectures me on timely appearances, and tells me to make my next class. Shit. Now I know why I need in my locker. Next hour. Tossing the detention slip in the locker with hundreds of others that never were used or fulfilled, aw…the waning weight of my responsibility, I found a piece of sacred gum. Spearmint. Excellent. I forgot to use the toothbrush this morning. Second hour, a certain pain in my ass, human female has free. Normally, or back when things were normal for us, we would agree to meet in the very private, luxurious Eraser Room, a place of chalk dust to some, a veritable oasis of delight for others. That was before she dumped me, found music, came home, wanted back with me until I turned into the psychotic Antar Murdering King, proving she had a reason to fear the whole alien thing, and now we are just playing it cool around each other, circling, wary, unsure, and basically very turned on. So it is very cool between us, or…well, cool unless our eyes, hands, or mouths touch the others’, then there is nothing cool there. Pretty damn nuclear.

Are we together? How the hell am I supposed to know? Honestly. On again, off again. In bed, out of bed. To the movies and back again. She has me flipping back and forth. I honestly don’t know where I stand with that daffy dame. Is she waiting for me to make a move? Hell, why me? She dumped my ass. It should be her turn. That’s not saying I’d take her back. Shit! Of course I’d take her back. In a breath, but I have to insert some masculinity into this. At least not right away.

No, I'm just bitter and I know it. Shit. How many men my size do you know who've had a 5 foot 5 inch woman beat the living crap out of them? I didn’t even know I could be so easily felled. I mean God, she walked away. After all that time. All the things I did, and said, or didn’t say, and she finally walked away. It made no sense. I guess I got used to her sticking, and then one day she didn’t. I’d rather take a hand across the face than live through that again. That’s why we’re not together officially. I’m not going to just walk in blind and have her knock the legs out from under me again. Nope. No way. This time, we either stick for good, or we don’t even start. And as soon as I can figure out how, I’m going to tell her that… I will.

Maria's a good person. I really shouldn't be so hostile towards her. It's not what I really feel and it's certainly not right. She did apologize to me. She did tell me she wanted me back. I’m just mad that she broke up with me the right way, not like all the times I just walked and left her uncertain where she stood. Damn her. She told me. Right to my face. It was over, that she couldn’t be with me any longer. I thought I would prefer honesty to subterfuge. I was wrong. For once, I just wished she would lie to me, and tell me everything was okay.

Well, maybe I should smile at Maria more often. Slowly work my way into talking to her about…well, things. I hate this shit. I hate being uncertain. Where the hell do we stand exactly? I can’t do it. I just can’t. Do you even know how hard it is going to be for me, me, to initiate a relationship talk? Crap. Why the hell can’t aliens drink?

There must be some kind of electrical connection between her fingers and the frickin’ nerve center of my body. Helps to make the fickle finger of fate a happy finger? Who the hell knows? She looks my way, crooks that finger, and damn if I’m not there. Humiliating. I’m totally whipped, and most of the time, not only do I know it, but I actually like it. Sick. Very sick.

I approach the outside area of her first hour. Oh jeez! Yes, dammit, I know her schedule. Give me a break! I was all alone last night, with a hell of a weekend, and all I’m looking for here is a little quality time. Yeah read hot and heavy nookie if you want, but I term it ‘quality time’ because it feels…nobler that way. I steel myself to attack. Why you ask? I mean it is my rules, my game. I rule there right? Well...in theory. She is the one who should be working to get back with me, right? Wrong. Eekkk. You’re out. I might be pretty clueless about relationships, but I do know this. Maria is not pursuing. She apologized, made her intentions clear, and obviously loves me, but this time she’s not going to push. She laid down her cards, and the ball is in my corner.

"Um... morning." Slippery silver-tongued devil, aren't I?

"Don’t even think it, buddy. It’s not going to work." Damn. She didn’t even look at me. Off to her locker, and before I could forestall her, she was gone.

Damn. What the hell got into her?

Oh right! Her damn concert. I stayed home. Oh hell’s bells. Bet Max and Liz ratted me out. Told her I wasn’t working. Wasn’t busy. Now she is upset that I wasn’t there, that I don’t care. Fuck! Mondays. I told you. Did I not? They suck! Does anyone listen to me? No. No, of course not. That’s it. Time to hit the men’s room and have a nice pity party.

Or go to my second period, which I didn’t have free, but was willing to miss for some ‘quality time’ with she who shall not be named. That’s it, dammit. You think I’m obsessed. I’m not. I can put her out of my mind just as easily as she can put me out of hers. Right. Don’t believe? Just watch.

Second period for me is…well some subject. I’m not certain what, but I have a book somewhere. It’s something political. Something like political systems. Hell, it might be health. Health? All I need to know is ‘condoms’, and everything else is just extraneous information. I usually skip it or catch up on some much needed sleep.

The test. I mean the proof. Third period. History. We have the same class. I usually sit in the back and doodle or snooze a little. My habit is to sit behind her, and a little to the left or right, so I can watch her. Love it when she wears a tight skimpy skirt. She has incredible legs. Not that I’m thinking about them right now! I’m just saying. To prove a point, I’ll just sit more to the middle. Get there first and scope out a good seat, forcing her to find a seat around me.

Oh, there she is. Not looking that great today. Not really. Well actually, damn! Okay she looks totally eatable. That dress. Seen it before. It has a nice zipper up the side instead of the back. The cloth is nice too. Silky to the touch and it slides under your fingers, along her skin. Real easy to move aside, slowly. Not that I’m thinking about that. I’m just mentioning it. For reference.

Here she comes. Mud. Mud. MudMud. MudMudMudMudMud. Easy. MudMudMudMudMud. . MudMudMudMudMud. MudMudMudMudMud. MudMudMudMudMud. MudMudMud. Mud. Mud. Mud. Mud. Oh shit. She sat behind me. Mud. Damn long class. Can’t see her legs. Or lips. Or eyes. Mud. Mud pies. Mud pie. Mud. Maria. Mud pie Maria. Chocolate Mud pie. Maria covered in chocolate Mud pie. Mud pie with chocolate whipped cream and Maria. Maria and chocolate whipped cream. Tabasco. Mud.

“Mr. Guerin! Do I need to repeat the question?”

“Mud.” Snickers? Fuck. Obviously that wasn’t the answer. A voice behind me whispered the answer. Thanks.

Who am I kidding? She does her own thing and suffers yours truly because, God love her; she's a loyal girlfriend. I know she finds me...difficult. Well, maybe that's not a strong enough word. I think she just feels that I'm a bastard at times. A closemouthed, uncommunicative bastard. ‘A Number One’ asshole and unattractive to boot. Okay, maybe not unattractive really. It might be the dirty sweater. At least the little nose wrinkle she makes sometimes when she sees me tells me I'm either not impressing her, or my Degree fails me on a regular basis.

I have noticed that when I'm clean, like fresh from the shower clean, she sniffs me. Now it might sound strange, but I actually kind of dig it. She smells my skin, which leads to her kissing my skin, to that little nipping thing she does that is actually…um, well damn. Mud.

"No answer, Mr. Guerin?” Oh shit. Someone was talking to me again? Busy here. Damn. Okay, so what was the question? There it is. That whisper again. Love it when she whispers. It is low and sexy, like her singing voice. There is this deep sound that…

“Mr. Guerin? You’re answer?”

“The Dawes Land Act of 1932?” Yeah. The teacher makes a sound in his throat, much like a hairball, and his eyes narrow.

"Yes, thank you, Ms. DeLuca." Yep, she has a low sexy sound in her voice, but unfortunately it does carry, not that I didn’t appreciate the effort. I at least have enough manners to whisper thanks back to her. Maria loves politeness. It really turns her on when I make the effort to show I appreciate her.

Michaellllll... She trills my name softly under her breath. Oh, yes sir. I have to tell you something mildly amusing here as well. She likes me more than a lot, and no I don’t just mean in bed. Maria likes talking to me, just being with me. It took some time for me to realize that, and to appreciate it. So when we talk, she really is excited and happy, then she does that trill thing with my name. Now that turns me on. I love it. A lot. And she knows it. I've seen the way she acts when I react to her voice. Her pupils dilate. And you know why? Because the woman has a major ‘Jones’ for me. That is modesty aside, because I know it for a fact. I cheat. The alien mumbo-jumbo gives me some nice insight to her feelings. I like. I like a lot. So you would think that because I want her near, and am lonely, and I know how she feels, that I would cut her a break and take her back. No. Not yet.

This time she better be sure. Very sure. I do not want to hear her years later whining about how much she sacrificed to know me, how much she gave up, or even how scared it all made her. This time, she better be sure. It’s for keeps. I hate dating. I hate having to try to get a woman to notice me, take me as I am. Maria, she knows the score, and when you add in our mutual feelings, it is pretty apparent how it is going to end. It’s all the places in between that are the problem. This time she loves and takes me as I am, or she doesn’t take me at all. I’ll get around to telling her that too. Someday. I’ve just got to find the right time, the right way and the right words.

I figure, we have time. Time to do it right this time. Take it slow. Let it burn a little hotter. Absence makes the heart grow fonder right? So I deny her a little. Okay, shit, so maybe I don’t deny her much. But a man has needs too, and all this waiting is for the birds. What? Do I look like Max Evans? I need my oil dipstick checked a little more often than that. Plus, she lusts for me. Man, when she turns her complete attention on me I am one lucky fucker! Maria is a damn knockout! Those DeLuca women grow 'em right. Look at Maria’s mom. There are no flies on her, so Maria has great old age knock-out potential. No worries.

You know when I think about it - I'm surrounded by women. Some, in fact a lot of them, are like Maria. Attractive, intelligent and very sexy women. Okay, so I scratch Liz Parker off that list. She’s okay, but most of the time, she has nothing going on. Nothing to attract even a modicum of interest from me. Most of the time, she just seems asexual. Like an undeveloped kid. Too serious and clinical. Hey! I live in my place. She comes over, and Max and her are all playing sucky face. It’s disgusting. You know like watching underage kids play spin the bottle, where they all blush if you say ‘underwear’. No real heat. No real passion. Just lots of quick kisses, talking between them. And talking. And talking. And talking. It’s the frickin’ Max and Liz relationship talking 101 class. It takes all kinds, and obviously she does something for Max, so who knew?

So, why the hell do I spend my weekends alone? Well, for one thing, I don't fraternize. Not with human girls, with one notable exception. Hell, I don’t fraternize with alien girls either. All the ones I met are damaged, diseased, and murderous in some form. It really doesn’t give much to recommend the breed. It's against my sense of self preservation. Sure you could argue Alien orgasm, but let me tell you that sex between me (read alien) and a human (read Maria) is pretty damn nuclear, hot and seriously lethal. Am I supposed to believe or care it could be hotter than that with an alien chick? Not likely. How do I know? Simple. Max. Sex with Tess didn’t blow his gasket, didn’t make him forget Liz, and sure as hell didn’t turn him on so hot that he couldn’t think of little else. Basically, he just mentioned it in passing as a ‘Jeez wiz, for your information...’ type thing. I’m getting some pretty powerful, mind altering orgasms with my 100% human girlfriend. That's all I want, and even I’m not such a ‘dog’ that I would go sniffing up a tree just because it’s supposed to have some magical orgasmic treat. Shit. What the hell is wrong with my alien side? Don’t these jokers believe in love, or is just physical gratification supposed to be enough? Maybe for them, but not for me. I’ve got a taste of what it means, and I admit I want it back. I hate living without it.

Human girls take too much effort. I know. Picked one up three years ago, and can’t seem to shake her off, literally or emotionally. Look at Max. He's led around by his dick by both human and alien breeds. The boy is totally licked. But damn, what is it about his relationship that makes both him and Liz doormats at the same time? He sits around and whines, Liz, Liz, Liz, and more Liz. But then he turns around and shoves his affair with Tess in her face. Personally, I think if you find one person you love in this world…you are lucky. Chances are this is it. So don’t fuck it up so badly that it ends forever. How can you love one person, but go off and be with another? I don’t get it. Maybe I’m wired wrong. But I don’t seem capable to want or care for any one else, only Maria. She has taken my entire heart hostage, and without it in the equation everything else tastes like paper.

Alien girls? Damn. Worst breed. If they aren’t trying to sell your ass down the river, they're betraying you and getting you killed, and they use sex appeal like a weapon to control the dickless wonders of the world. Oops. Sorry Max. But Tess and Lonnie were good indicators of a breed gone bad, and even though I like Isabel, there is still that little fact that when she was supposed to be my fiancée, she was balling Kivar as her ‘great’ true love, and then let the bastard in the city. That act got me killed. Color me old fashioned, but I actually expect my fiancée to be loyal and faithful to me. End of story.

For another, I don't like to mix business with pleasure. I mean I honestly believe that these alien chicks don’t really feel things. Sex for them is just a way to control a man, get close and use them. They aren’t very subtle either. Take Courtney for example. Hell, an entire summer with her climbing all over me, making suggestive come-ons, trying to excite me with her talk of piercings, and her masturbating with her TV remote, and the chick still left me cold. There was a little alien mystique there, but not enough to warrant dipping into it and signing over my freedom. I mean, come on! Would you like to see how well my husk fits? Jesus, put on your damn clothes! That much of a blatant come-on is quite the turn off. It feels sleazy and cheap. It’s sad, but Maria can, in one glance, have revved up my engine faster, hotter and meaner than all the stupid Courtney come-ons.

Even if I thought about flaunting the fraternization rule, I wouldn't do it. Hell, then I’d be in the same pickle Max was in, having a bastard child with a woman that was trying to kill me, turn me over to my enemies, or just manipulate me into being someone I’m not. If I had it in my mind to take an alien as a lover, or say, Courtney, Isabel, Tess, or even Lonnie (it would be a cold day in hell there, freak shows are not my thing), into my bed I would reject the notion. You see, I hate talking shop in the sack. I mean when I'm contemplating my lover's exquisite backside or luscious lips I don't want to be discussing why I should become King, Destiny or support them in their mad quest for power, or have them holding a part of my delicate anatomy in their hands while they outline my allegiance to them. And I sure as hell don't want to hear crude suggestive talk trying to convince me that this was going to be the ride of a lifetime when the package comes off seductive, but the eyes are cold and calculating. Talk about your sex suppressant. A sure route to Limp City, if ever there was one.

Now Maria is the direct opposite. She doesn’t rut around like a bitch in heat, rubbing up and down on my leg, calling me ‘Big Daddy’ and calling my dick stupid euphemisms like ‘sausages’ or other sad pathetic crap. She doesn’t have to. There is no need for her to dress up the outer package to try to sell below standard inside ones. Nope. Her heart is a pretty powerful thing. It shines from the inside out. Pretty damn obvious that the woman is exactly what you see and what you see is…wow. She doesn’t just have the looks with empty promises. She has the goods to back it up. No cheap tawdry come-ons with her. Hell if Maria DeLuca ever tried to come-on to me with a ‘hey sexy’ sex kitten purr, I’d fry her ass. No hesitation. It would be a shape shifter or some other alien sleaze taking my girlfriend’s place. Maria has much too class for that shit. She doesn’t have to run her foot up my leg to get my engines running or try to incite me. Nope. A look. A quick glance to the side. Her eyes meet mine. Bam! I’m done. Almost ready to orgasm right there. Now that is power!

Confession time. Maria DeLuca? That Maria girl? Yeah. I knew her long before I knew her. What I mean is that I was watching her, couldn’t help it. Damn. Those legs. Those lips. Those eyes. I don't know why I started watching her. Why did I notice her at all, I ask myself? Oh, for God's sake. I really have to stop deluding myself this way. Michael, Michael, come on Mr. Alien Rebel Without a Cause. Get with the program here. I noticed her because she's attractive and I'm a total hopeless raging bag of hormones right now. You know what they say about aliens? Right - locked and loaded at all times thanks to the extra alien testosterone. Whatever. But things are, if you'll pardon the expression, a little hard right now. Yes sir.

At any rate, I noticed her because she...I don't know, she just seemed interesting. And you know she's not my type at all really. You know….alien. Or so I thought back then. I’ve since rethought my attraction thing given reasons I think I already outlined. I like leggy women. Blondes, although I won't turn down a brunette or red head. Tight bodies. Real tight. Small. I love the delicate feel of her bones under my hands, like I could crush her, control her, but I don’t because she is so tiny. Lips that are made to kiss. Oh god, love kissing. I do it well, or so I am led to believe. I love it. Damn, I get all bothered just from kissing. I like it hot, long and deep. Full bodies. Hands. The whole shebang. Maria’s got that in spades. She might talk at first, but soon, her brain melts down and she is all sensation…shut up and fuck.

Now I accidentally walked in on Max and Liz. Yeah don’t even snicker, it was an accident. No one would willingly peep in on those two, plus even though no one seems to remember it, it is my place. I live there, pay rent. I should be able to walk through my own living room without gagging. That was the thing. Kissing. Kiss, simpering smile, talk, peck, talk, peck, giggle, simpering smile, Max sucking on her lip, trying to get her to get with it and stop….oops, nope didn’t work, talking….you get the picture? Yeah. Exactly. Nothing to get excited about. Not even a hormonal tug in the old pud getting me crazed enough to lick Maria’s boots. Hell, Bewitched Reruns get me more excited. Maria dressed up like Samantha? Hell. I’d bay at the moon.

Yeah, I guess there could’ve been other women out there for me. Take Isabel for instance. The summer we found out about Destiny, we were both free. I left Maria, for her own good, mind you. And Isabel cooled it with Alex. Now there's a hell of a beautiful blonde, well at least she once was. Now she reminds me of June Cleaver. But she doesn't do a thing for me. Well...ok so I'm lying to myself again. Yeah, I was attracted to her. Crap, I'd have to be dead below the waist not to be. But it's not so much physical with her. When we were growing up, for a small space of time, when Isabel suddenly bloomed into a full blown hottie, yeah, I definitely felt a twinge. That was long before the DeLuca steamer hit the horizon. That lasted about two thoughts. It was followed by mortification.

Hell, back then I swore Max and Isabel were my brother and sister. Nothing is more deflating to the male penis than thinking sudden sexual thoughts about your sister. Ouch. Man, that taboo thing really works. In my mind, that was it. Isabel equaled sister. After ten years of those thoughts, do you really think that I was just going to overnight say….oh yeah, Isabel, she’s the One? Why? Because a moldy mommy-gram said she was my Destiny? Get real! Hell I still think that it was all a Tess mind warp to get us to try Destiny so Max would follow in line. But either way, deprogramming takes a hell of a lot more than that. Add in that my heart was already full of someone else, and yeah that was a ticket that was never going to be punched. Maybe Max had it harder since he never knew Tess. If she was found with us all those years ago, and we were all raised believing we were siblings, then the whole Max and Tess thing I believe would have never happened.

I mean look at those Dupes. They were raised by a Shape shifter who told them they had a Destiny. They had it drummed into them from day one that they were all the other was ever going to have. Damn. How sad is that? Mated from birth, regardless what the person looks like, is, or even if you have an ounce of feelings for them? Hell, I’d hate that more than taking orders. Wait….that is taking orders.

Truthfully? You know the old saying that familiarity breeds contempt? Yeah, that’s me and Isabel. I can love her like a sister. I even almost like her at times. For the longest time she was all I had. Her and Max. But when I see Isabel…I see buttoned down shirts, loafers, and sweater vests. Damn! Run away! Look at the men she has been attracted to. Sure, Alex was sort of a computer geek, but he drove a nice car, came from a nice professional family, and he wore nice clothes. Strange. But nice. Clean. One owner. Grant? A professional. A geologist. Money. Career. Suits and ties. Bank account and credit cards. Jesse. Three piece suits. Armani. Shiny shoes. Doc Martens. Henley shirts. Dry cleaners.

And now look at me. Do I even look anywhere like the type of man Isabel Evans would lower herself to? Nope. Is she my dream girl? Hell no. I’d rot in hell first. Actually, I’d just cut off my dick, put it in a jar and tell her to use it when she needed it. Controlling neat freak. Christmas Nazi. How about her telling me that she expects a ‘real’ wedding present from me, not just painting her lame apartment? Yeah, there it was. That cold, manipulative alien glare. Shiver me timbers. She probably has her entire life on a planner. This year for baby number one. Oh, honey, it says here that for a good successful marriage we will need to have sex in all positions, every place on this list, and hurry up. I’ve got an itinerary. Cool and calculating. Where is the passion?

Me and Isabel? That would’ve been a bad thing. She would have done her nagging, controlling thing, and I would’ve shut down, got nasty, and hated it. My days wouldn’t be spent daydreaming about getting her naked and screaming like it does right now with Maria. Nope. My fantasies would have involved lacing her tea with rat poison.

See, Isabel was another package deal. Looked sexy on the outside, lots of promises, but very little follow through. How do I know? Simple. Look how she looked before marriage. Dressed for success. 'Look at me, I’m sexy and you can’t touch unless you purchase.' Then bam. Done deal. Suddenly she's possessed by the spirit of Martha Stewart. Everything had to be perfect and neat. She even looked dowdy. Prim. Proper. Damn. Bet she hates sex with no condom, not because of the threat of disease and babies, but because condoms keep everything neat. No sperm running down those thighs. Quick and easy clean up, and the sheets hardly mussed up.

Oh shit! I had to mention dirty sheets. Yeah, Maria hated that too. Not the dirtying them up part. Nope. That, I have reason to believe, she loves. She hates coming to do it again and finding the same old dirty sheets on the bed. Nothing like dry spunk and smell to turn a woman off. I will admit that I do sort of agree with her. A fresh bed. All made and clean is just begging to be messed up. It’s like inspiration. Rolling around in those clean sheets, making them wet. Forgetting to be a gentleman and leaving the wet spot on her side so she is forced to sleep literally on top of you. I bought extra sheets since Maria and I broke up. I just want to be prepared.

Isabel. I admire her passion, her intellect; the mind inside her physical being a hell of a lot more than her body. Honestly. But I don't feel that spark with Isabel. The drawing, the urge to merge. She's a fantastic woman. But I don't want to ball her. Besides that I think of her as a sister, that, and she is married. Yeah, people think me capable of many things, but not that. Never that. I am a loyal type of guy. I don’t believe in infidelity, and I sure as hell am not going to become part of a cheating equation with some married woman. She wants out of her marriage? Then she needs to find another way to do it that doesn’t involve me. I do have some scruples. Married women? Even women in established relationships? They are just as taboo as sisters.

Another way I knew that I had no feelings for Isabel, despite this stupid Destiny thing? Simple. Maria’s friend Billy comes to town, I can’t even think straight. I blow up half the damn place. No control. It was a total nightmare. Jealousy. Never knew I could feel it, but damn, it was wicked. Isabel gets married and I know that means she will be spreading it for Jesse and I couldn’t give a shit. Hell. I couldn’t even get excited enough to blow a cork out of a champagne bottle. If there had been feelings there, even ones hidden and denied, they would have manifested themselves in a total annihilation of the world. Because I can tell you one thing, if Maria were to marry another man, or even if I just knew she was going to do him, I’d burn this little berg to the fucking ground.

“Michael?”

Huh? Oh shit! Did it again. Class is over and everyone has gone. There she is. My albatross. Maria. Staring at me in concern. So what? I lose track sometimes and get stuck in my own thoughts. People do that. Oh? Oh! She has that concerned look on her face. I’m one sick pup, but I love that look. She gets all concerned. She had it that night I drank too much. She was going to stay with me, and hate every minute of it. But I did a good thing. I told her I was fine. Sent her on her way to find Enigma. I still love that look. She had it when I was sick. Lost in the Balance. I never told her, but I saw her on the dream plane. I felt her there with me. I kissed her. I kissed her because she wasn’t mine, and I couldn’t have her. But I wanted her.

Maria’s hand. It is so tiny in comparison to mine. I notice that about it as she leads me out of the empty classroom, and other students are entering. She pulls me along behind her. The Eraser Room! Oh damn! Fourth hour? She is going to skip for me? Okay, so maybe Maria can find a way to amend my hatred of Mondays. Maybe. Anything is possible. Once upon a time I never thought I would trust or love a human. She changed that. Once upon a time I never thought I could want anything more than finding my home and returning to it. She changed that too, and in the process saved my life. Mondays. I can learn to love them.

She is concerned about me. Checking me out. Making sure I’m okay. Yeah. That’s how it starts. Her hands on me, we look at each other, and…Well damn. That’s none of your business. Some things should be private. But I will say, we skipped both fourth and fifth and were late for lunch. Are we together? I still don’t know. I’m confused about that. I do know that when I’m with her, I’m really with her, and that I do know.

Lunch. Food. I keep telling myself I’m going to pack a lunch. Do you ever see that happening? No? Yeah, me either. That would require me to be organized. Maybe prepare it the night before or get up in a timely manner to do it that morning. My massacred alarm clock is proof enough that it is never going to be an issue. Can I also say that being that anal, that organized; stinks of Isabel or Liz and her colored pie-charts? I don’t think so.

Shit. Kyle. I like to sit on the bleachers and eat a bad sandwich I got from the school cafeteria. It’s cheap. Dry. Mystery meat. That and a Snapple and I’m ready for the rest of the day. Add in a nice Eraser Room break, and this Monday is looking pretty good. Surprise. Surprise.

Now Kyle. He’s going to want to go out. Lately, he has made me his hustling partner. Pool. At the bars. The man has all the makings of a shakedown artist spewing Buddha rhetoric. It’s a sad thing. No. Nope. I just spent a few hours having my tongue sucked out of my body by Maria. That and other things. I told you…private. Back off. But damn! She has the suction of an industrial Hoover vacuum. I appreciate it. Oh yeah, I actually worship it. She could suck the chrome off my bike’s tailpipe. That mouth…her mouth, it is just exquisite. Yeah, I said exquisite. Believe it or not, I actually know what that word means. I’m not completely stupid.

Oh yeah, Kyle. I digress. Yep. He wants to talk me into wasting those few hours before I have to work hustling pool. There is no way. I was going to eat at the Crashdown before my shift, so maybe I could talk to Maria. Yeah, we just spent some time, but it was that ‘quality time’ I already mentioned. This is the talking I need to do to pave the way for a greater understanding. Bullshit. It’s obvious. I need to make amends over not going to her concert. Blowing her off. Oh I’d love to blow her off. Suck.

“Hey, Mike.” Ignore that. The name Mike? You call me that and I am gone. That is not my name. Sure a few people have called me that. Courtney, she called me Mikey G. It made my skin crawl. I guess it was a sort of round about reaction, like the same feeling that women get when a greasy sleaze in a bar wearing bad aftershave and lots of pseudo gold chains calls them ‘babe’. Mikey G had the same feel to me. Like someone wants to roll me, fuck me, and basically just use me. Nasty. Hated it. Enough said. Mike? Buddies at work called me that, and I let it slide. I liked being one of the guys. Isabel called me Mike a few times, but I chose to ignore her until she realized I would not respond to her until she addressed me as Michael. My name. Hank called me Mikey. Obviously that is not a name I respond to, ever. I more than hate it. It brings back nothing but bad memories and even worse feelings.

Spaceboy. Only one person is allowed to call me that. On her lips, it sounds like ‘honey’, ‘sweetheart’, and even ‘baby’. Sad sick world that I live in, I love it from her. Anyone else? I’d probably fry.

Grunting. Is there really anything wrong with that? I find it completely efficient. No real energy expended, and it does two things. First, it tells the person I noticed them…sort of, or at least as much as I plan to. Second, it also tells them to go away…you’re bugging me, kid. Kyle? No. As you guessed, he didn’t take the hint. He wants me to spend some time with him. Hustling. Normally I can actually find myself enjoying Kyle’s company. In a basic way. Watching sports. Farting. Horsing around. Foosball. Actually in times like that, I actually enjoy Max’s company, but there isn’t much time for that anymore. Max is caught in the dullsville Liz Zone. So there is no fun to be had there, and no sex either from what I gather.

Anyway. Kyle. No. Not going to happen. He just wants to use my alien powers to turn a few bucks, hustle a few tourists. Do I look like I want to spend my time working for chump change? He drinks a beer and I’m sipping on a cherry coke. Life is too unfair. He can just walk right on. It’s not going to happen. I’m busy. Don’t I look busy? A person with half a brain wouldn’t even ask.

“So after school….”

“Sure.”

What? Can’t I change my mind? He looked desperate. Best to help a friend out. Not like I have a shit load of them anyway. And Kyle is pretty much in the same predicament. He used to be a real man on campus type, but the alien vortex sucked his life and popularity away. I’ll just hit the Crashdown afterwards and talk to Maria before my shift.

Maria. I was admitting to noticing her long before I met her, wasn’t I? Yeah, I noticed her about a year before. That was about the time she outgrew her lips, and they suddenly didn’t look like fish-lips as much as something totally worth worshipping, fantasizing about, and well, damn it, just staring at. Did she change, or did how I look at girls change? Hard to say. Let's just say that she had all the things in the right places, a total cuteness that promised to become something spectacular as she matured. I congratulate myself on noticing it first, long before other boys. Those same boys made fun of her long after they should have stopped. Once they actually started looking at her, lusting after her, and wanting her to take them serious, she already had their number. Jimmy Durant called me a fish-lip freak….date him? No fucking way! Yeah, some guys weren’t that swift. She had a thing for me, a sort of stand-offish fear. That Michael guy, he creeps me out sort of thing, but she couldn’t quote any time I actually made fun of her. That gave me a sort of chance, better than others, even despite the hair and alien thing. That DeLuca girl was a strange looking thing. Large lips, beautiful eyes, a sparkling personality with a gangly undeveloped body with legs up to here. Then one day around fifteen, she walked into the high school, and boys fainted dead as she passed. She was wearing red lip gloss, a pissy look, oh, shit; okay call it haughty look with a deadly glare ready to annihilate anyone that made fun of her. She was wearing a short skirt. Oh lord! Those legs! Those lips! Nothing has been the same since. Now Isabel had the untouchable ice princess model thing going, but Maria…oh Maria. That DeLuca girl was like watching living, breathing, walking liquid sex. It started then, and now...I make it a point to watch her every day.

I don't like to contemplate what this says about me. I mean the tendency towards voyeurism it must be in my nature. Well fuck. I can always rationalize it as surveillance. You know practice observing….sort of sentry skills. I'll just use this as an excuse to stay sharp. Frosty. If I can watch her and make little observations, little theories about her, without her seeing or knowing, it will keep my skills at surveillance from really dying on the vine. So what if being a peeping Tom is illegal in all 50 states. Hey, I'm a fucking 18 year old illegal alien of the extraterrestrial kind. They can incarcerate me. Right? Damn straight.

So I watch, and observe and guess about her life. She was so young. I guess we all were, but I don’t remember ever feeling ‘young’. She was on the petite side, and very thin. Guess that fascinated me. I mean my only real up close and personal with a sort of female, was Isabel. Not saying Isabel is fat or anything, but she isn’t delicate. Not like this. Maria, her skin, it was pale and clear. She looked like a china doll. She use to have long blonde hair, but with the lip gloss came a haircut. Short. A stylish cut that made her face almost elfish and her lips even more luscious. I couldn’t get close enough to see her eye color, but I remember dreaming about it. Sometimes blue. Sparkling. Warm brown. Green. They were green. Damn. The first time I could really see her eyes, I still remember it clearly. It was a defining movement. That was the moment her entire body became one reality, and my fantasy file was complete. She topped the list of my spank files.

She's got a hell of a body too. I can't help but notice the fact she's got great legs. Kind of a leg man, I notice legs. Isabel’s legs…no offense, are a little weighty in the calf. Liz’s knees are a fright, and because she is short, her legs look too short as well. I know it's rude to be watching a woman and making these comments. But, Christ it's just been so long since...well since I really admired a woman other than Maria. I feel like I should at least look around.

Where the hell did Kyle go? No matter. Lunch is over. I usually sleep in my class after lunch, so the subject really escapes me. Two more classes to go. I really should look around more. I never really looked, not really….well except for Maria before we were exposed. I mean, why look? Wasn’t like I was going to ever get involved.

Now I look. It’s an independence thing. Shopping around. West Roswell High is full of girls of all types. It is like a shopping mall. So I try to look around between classes as I pass people. Aw, Isabel’s old girlfriends. The Heckle and Jeckle crowd. Hate them. No amount of good looks can cover up the vapid void between their ears. I had the misfortune to be caught sitting behind them once. The fascinating discussion of lip liner almost made we wish to be taken by the FBI. Anything. Breeding with them would be like a science experiment gone bad.

Girl-watching isn’t hard. You just walk and think of one word or phrase that says it all. You think it would be easy, but that isn’t always true. Sometimes the only word that comes to mind is ‘damn’ girl. Anyway, so between sixth and seventh period I practiced being observant. Sort of shopping around. Bad hair. Bad breath. Oh jeez, those teeth! Too much makeup. Makeup please! Too homely. Oops. Sorry Liz didn’t notice it was you. Chunky. Thin. Way too thin. Is that a girl? Plain. Okay, but…yeah nothing comes to mind. That’s a bad sign. Hey, beautiful until she opens her mouth…oh damn, the laugh is high, piercing. No. Too pretty. Oops. Sorry Max. Hehehe. Oh wow! Back it up. Can’t see the face, only the long leg, and some nice exposed leg. She is bending down. Oh, nice ass. Real nice…shit. Maria? What the hell is she doing bending like that in public?

At any rate, I think Maria is a knockout despite her petite stature. And you know from watching her interact with her coworkers, me being one of them, I know she is a warm human being as well. She laughs easily. It's nice. A hell of a pleasant thing to see on a shitty Monday.

And there is also an extra bonus - Maria dresses well. She seems to have an innate sense in how to utilize her assets. Yes, dammit, I’m talking about her legs again. Did I mention I’m a leg man? Use to be a tit man too, but after the first time Maria wrapped those legs around me…okay, um, I think you get the picture. Obsession has to start somewhere. I love her tits, too. They are small, well shaped. Fit her body perfectly. She doesn’t look like a large mammary gland with a future of having them swing at mid-waist. Nope. They are small, tight and pert. Okay, so I’m still a tit man. I just rethought what I like. Don’t get me wrong, I still ogle a nice set of hooters. I am a guy, right? Right? But sometimes some is enough, and a lot is just too much. Pamela Anderson comes to mind. That looks like a place to smother. I like Maria’s. No. I love Maria’s, they fit my mouth perfectly. Add in how sensitive they are, and it’s a bonus. I suckle on her, and she goes postal, nuclear, and I get the most incredible experience. There is the ticket.

Later...

My head...my head is...my head is starting to explode! This teacher can really drone on and on.

"Mr. Guerin."

"Yeah?"

"There is no excuse."

Sure there is. There is always an excuse. What the hell are we talking about now? I was still daydreaming about my mouth and Maria’s tits. Okay, guess he is waiting for me to say something. A grunt seems appropriate.

"Is that an agreement? I see. So you agree that your inability to turn in a single homework assignment is not acceptable?"

"Yes, sir." When in doubt. Just nail in that respectful title. It always works.

"So you are in agreement?"

"Uh, yes sir?" What the hell is he talking about?

"Good! Then I expect every one of these assignments on my desk tomorrow. Is that clear?"

"Crystal." Oh shit! This isn’t a list of my assignments? It has to be a mistake. Tomorrow? Did he say tomorrow? Shit. Great. What class is this again? I guess I need to know that so I can extract my book from my locker. Sorry Kyle, you’re on your own. I’ve got too much work to do to hustle tourists. I guess I can take it to the Crashdown, have some food, get off for the night, and talk to Maria. Yeah. That should work. Time to get to work. Put my nose to the old grindstone.

“Michael! You ready to hit the pool tables?”

“Sure. Let's go.”

What? I’ve got time for at least one game. After all, if I don’t I won’t have enough ready cash to pay for dinner. Yeah, true I get my meals there for free, but still, a man needs some cash in his pockets.

Okay, so one game ended up being ten. That wasn’t my fault. I contend it was Kyle’s. The boy is so needy, damn near desperate for male bonding. It was the least I could do. Plus, Kyle gave me his returned assignments. At least six of them. That is six out of the sixteen I owe. Ten more to go. So if you look at it from a special perspective, lets just call it Guerin-vision, you’ll see that those ten pool games were an investment. It got me closer to finishing my assignments, and added about two hundred bucks to my pocket.

So the two hundred will cover the shift I have to drop at the Crashdown. Nothing I can do about that since I need to finish this damn homework. Hate Mondays. It couldn’t get any worse.

Shit.

I take it back. Here I am, haplessly walking to the Crashdown. I left my bike there before pool. Any other street I could’ve walked down, but no, I chose this one. Think of it as leftover suicidal tendencies. You know, the ones from my last life that somehow got me sort of engaged to Isabel….sorry, I mean Vilandra. The street that Amy DeLuca’s storefront is on. Yeah. It’s hard to miss. Did you catch the sarcasm? All those plastic aliens hanging in the front window. I can’t help it. I always stop. The sheer wonder of the Roswell alien just stuns me. I stand there looking at the alien with my reflection next to it.

I don’t see the resemblance. Honest I don’t.

So this death wish, you ask. Yeah, that is it. Amy DeLuca. She saw me. What to do? Run? Pretend I don’t notice her noticing me? Maybe she’ll just wave?

Nope. More than likely she wants to know why I am making her daughter miserable. Damn, I really have been avoiding her since last spring. I mean, isn’t it written on my face? Hi, Ms. DeLuca, oh yeah, I’m doing your daughter. Hope you don’t mind. Is that a newspaper I see? Or what if she asks me straight to my face. Hell, what do I say? I really don’t think I can lie to Maria’s mom. I’m positive I can’t. Shit. I think I’ll just throw up right now. If I was younger I would just piss my pants. Actually….that’s not a bad idea! She might think me so pathetic that I can escape.

She saw me. She called my name. No avoiding now. Crap. Double crap. And more crap.

“Michael.”

“Ms. DeLuca.” See, it definitely isn’t a Michael and Amy sort of relationship. Definitely not.

“How are you?”

“Good.” Not bad. I just lied. I can lie to her! Great. Now just practice it. Repeat after me. No. I’m not balling your daughter. I swear. I just think about it a lot. No. Leave that last part out. Or I know. Yeah, but I don’t inhale.

“I needed to ask you something.”

Shit! Here it comes. Shoot. Damn.

“Only on the weekends, some weekdays.”

“Huh?” Oh now she looks confused.

Oh shit. Did I say that? Oh great, she looks real confused. Um, no, I didn’t mean that was when I slept with your daughter. Oh crap.

“Are you okay?”

Oh god! So that's where Maria gets those concerned eyes from.

“No.”

Shit. Guess I can’t lie to her. I should've said yes. Now she's leading me inside, all motherly and concerned. Okay, I’m a sick man. I think I’m liking this. Maybe I could just spin a long yarn about how traumatized I’ve been by Maria dumping me and leaving me to go to New York. Hey, lighten up! This motherly concern is new to me. The only mothering I ever had was from Isabel, and that is a long dry spell in between, plus I never really liked it with Isabel. Made me feel like a damn orphan from some Charles Dickens novel. ‘If you please, mum.’ Fuck that.

“So what's wrong?”

Damn those eyes. Not green like Maria’s, but the same look. A nice warm brown. Maria DeLuca, you were one lucky kid. The truth or a partial. Damn if I know what is wrong with me. Okay, don’t come off as some sappy damn geek. Just say. Nothing. I am fine.

“I, um, that is, um….well, um….” God I’m pathetic! I’ve got to stop scratching my brow when I’m uncomfortable. It gives me away. Breath deep. Calm. I am the tree. I am the tree? Shit! Is that a Buddha thing? I’m going to kill Kyle Valenti. Wring his scrawny Buddha loving neck. “I…it’s just I have all this makeup work. Tons and it’s due tomorrow.”

The truth. That was the truth! Pathetic. What happened to adults are the enemies? Oh. Oh! She is patting my arm, with a little rub. Maria does that. How sick is it sitting here taking comfort from my sort of not-girlfriend’s mother while thinking of all the different ways I’d like to nail her daughter? I need therapy. An alien therapist. Know any good ones?

“Oh. Well I’m sure you’ll get it done. I was just going to ask you a question, but maybe I should wait, or just skip it.”

Skip it. Yeah. Skip it. No. I am not fucking your daughter. Technically that is true. What we do…it is something beyond fucking. It is, well…wow. So yeah, skip it. Believe me, if this crappy Buddha truth shit has rubbed off on me, you won’t want to know. I might against my will give details. Graphic ones or start blubbering like a love sick fool. Shit. I knew having Max live at my place was a mistake. It’s like a contagion. The utterly sappy.

“No it’s okay. What did you want to ask?” Okay, it's official. I’ve been abducted by humans. My brain is not my own. Help. Help. Human abductee here.

“I was wondering if you’d do some deliveries for me this coming weekend. I’ll provide a car, gas, and a treat for the ride.”

Treat? Did she just offer me Maria?

“I don’t know what kind of soda you like, but…”

Damn. Crushing. It’s not nice to build a guy’s hopes up.

“Sure, Ms. DeLuca. Not a problem.” See? See how normal I can sound. Piece-o-cake. Now I just need to remember to show up. Then she can give me instructions and directions…Shit! It’s an ambush! She’ll have me trapped, under her thumb. She’ll apply adult torture tricks to get me to confess my undying lust and constant abuse of her daughter’s nubile body. Hosed. I am totally hosed.

“Then, I’ll see you then?”

Excuses. You have hundreds. Um, number 87 should work nice. Sorry I’ve got the clap. Nope, idiot that would just make her suspicious and have Maria tested too, and then she’d have proof. You only use that one on Courtney type characters, of course it doesn’t work on Lonnie type characters, who already have the clap and don’t let a little dripping bother them. Number 31, ironclad. My grandmother was run over by a high jacked Greyhound Bus. Shit! I think I used that one last week at the Crashdown, plus she knows I don’t have a grandmother. Oh damn, when in doubt use the oldies but goodies. Number 19, come to papa. I’ve got a seeping lesion on a region of my body that you don’t want to see, and I think it’s contagious. Yeah that gets everyone to back off and give up space.

“Michael?” She smiled.

“Huh?” Oh shit. “Right. Saturday.” I am toast. Saturday is gonna be a nightmare. Why can’t I lie to her? It was the smile. I’m sure it was the smile. Those damn DeLuca women. I can’t even count on one hand how many times they made me do and say things that I just don’t do or say. You think it was comfortable wearing tights and having my ass knocked all around a wrestling ring? You think that half the shit I do and say to Maria is something I pull out of my ass? No. She makes me feel things. Uncomfortable things. It must a DeLuca voodoo thing.

The Crashdown. Maria.

She’s working right now. In that stupid waitress outfit, much shorter than Liz’s. That’s okay, because Maria actually has the legs for it. On her, that uniform takes on a whole different meaning, and gets added to the fantasy spank list.

It's strange how a man's mind works sometimes. For instance - a guy can get as hard as a rock in seconds flat, especially at my age, and all he can be thinking of is the word polyurethane. I am finding the word ‘mud’ to be counter productive. It use to help me keep my mind off….you know, things. Here I am standing at the Crashdown window with a huge woody and the word mud flying through my frontal lobe like a rocket. And why was I both hard and thinking of Maria at the same time? Because obviously I’d love to see Maria DeLuca in a wet t-shirt mud wrestling. Hey, give me a break, okay. My thought process isn’t that screwy. I was reminiscing about my wrestling career all due to the DeLuca’s. That involved spandex, and wrestling and spandex make me think of mud and Maria in tight rubber. Rubber. Well hell, that makes me think of condoms, which in turn makes me think…..okay I think you got it. All evil and twisted roads lead back to one thought. Maria. And a complete thought. Maria naked and withering under me. Cut me some slack. I’m an eighteen year old boy that is not even human yet, even if I wasn’t an alien, it’s nothing more than raging hormones. Where the hell did you expect my thoughts to be?

And there she is in that uniform. She wore that for me once while I was wearing my security uniform. She got a little frisky with me, so I had to subdue her. Yeah, Meta-Chem might be gone, but I still have the uniform, and Maria still has hers….oh damn.

God damn. She's gorgeous. Small but perfect. She must work out. Jog. Something. I never see her exercise, but she has to. Muscular thighs, but lean. Nice, tight ass. Oh God...that ass. I'm watching her ass right now because she has her back half turned to me, and she is bending over the table to clear it. Did I mention I’m a leg man? I shouldn’t be standing here with a massive Jones on and a set of balls that feel like you could go bowling with them. Damn Kyle and his jokes, handing me those blue bowling balls. That is some frickin’ foreshadowing Buddha Boy.

My fevered hormone hopping imagination went into overdrive as I stood in full view of this beautiful, heedless, fun-loving woman. Watch out Michael. She's going to see you, you stupid bastard! But a big insistent voice between my legs was howling - "Man, you should have brought some binoculars!" Belay that disgusting shit. Oh Jesus though, I can't help it. I want to see her up close and...I can't help but think what it might be like to...to touch her hip. Just caress that warm flesh...without the uniform getting in the way. She's so small my whole hand could practically cup one buttock and...I gotta stop watching. Just stop watching; back away...just walk away now. Back off. Back up. Go away before...before...

Oh shit! She sees me standing here. Damn! I can see her face now and I wish I never...She knows I'm watching her, that I see her, that I've seen her and more. She can feel the heat of my stare. Oh hell. She knows I'm watching because she's looking right into my wide, starving, staring eyes. I can't believe...Fuck! I flunked surveillance 101 here big time ladies and gents. Christ on a crutch. I can't believe I was busted so easily, that I was so careless. Well of course I was careless. My brains had gone South to Wally World. I should really have my head (the big one, not the little one….really the lesion shit was all lies), examined for even standing here indulging myself in some perverted peeping Tom game.

Michael, you have really done it now you stupid son of a bitch. You’re a stone wall, remember? You’re supposed to be keeping it real, cool, let her work at getting you back. That was the damn plan. Not to be salivating over her thighs from the window, standing on the outside looking in like she is a Christmas goose on display. This is so her fault. Absolutely. Proven. I’m a hormone driven, barely functioning member of the species, sort of. So naturally thoughts about her nicely muscled, yet soft in the correct places body, and her alabaster, glowing skin and her lush lips, tits and...Christ, I am one sick fuck. I still can't look away. But I notice neither can she and I think...I don't want to think. I just want to bury myself in her.

I need to get myself under control. I need to tell my legs to move and myself that this is just a harmless fantasy again. Rationalize it all. I need to let it go. All of it. The need I have to make her crawl and beg is just a fantasy. I don’t really want that. Damn. I need to obfuscate my feelings. To deny my wants and needs. To smack them back. To crush them down. Screw them down tight. Bury them, bury them deep. Brilliant. Great. I’ll never get her back that way, and yes, I can be honest enough to say that I want her back. Permanently. Forever. Her and me. If I don’t start giving her some breaks, opening the cracks, I will never touch her again. Never...love her...Don't be an idiot.

Talk to her. Tell her the truth. Tell her why you didn’t go to listen to her sing. Start somewhere.

Okay, walking forward is a good first start. I’m proud of myself. Old Michael would have found it too much effort, and just walked away. Then in the late dark, felt a deep unsatisfied hunger, called loneliness. Deep endless loneliness. That old person is dead.

No reason to mourn it. The important parts are still in me, but I’m just not so miserable anymore. A little more open. A little happier. Free.

“Hi. You okay.”

“Sure. Why?” Damn our conversations are like a complex dance. That meant a lot more, you know. Hers was ‘Hi, you okay?’ which means, "Damn I miss you, waited for you to show up, and now I’m worried about you." Mine of course means just what I said since I always say what I think.

“You working?”

“Later, but I need to get out of it.”

She is waiting for me to give more information, or something. She stands on her toes when she is waiting. I should tell her why I didn’t go to hear her sing.

Well, it’s pretty frickin’ obvious, to me at least. Jealousy. Yeah, I can admit that. Actually I have a hard time denying it. It’s more than that. I go and there are all these sweaty men salivating over her, all of them wanting to get their hands on her ass. I’m a guy. I know what they want. What they are thinking as they watch her beautiful mouth sing, the sway of her body, the sexy tight clothes she wears.

I can’t deny it because I blow the shit out of things. No control. I should buy stock in Sylvania or GE light bulbs. I’ve trashed so many. Set off car alarms. Exploded glass windows. My crazy out of control alien side scares her. Do you really think I want to go to a place where I’m going to expose myself, and make her upset?

And there is one other thing. Happy. She looks happy while singing. Alive. So fucking gorgeous it almost hurts to look at her. I hate it. I hate that she finds so much in something that’s not me. But, at the same time, I’m proud of her. She’s living her dream, refusing to compromise her art for a quick trip of fame. She took back her life, and she is actually working at it. I envy that kind of ambition and direction. I love seeing her happy. I love her happy.

So I stay away. Not really. Just far enough to keep from ruining it for her. That’s it. That’s why I didn’t go see her sing. Simple, you think. Great, then you tell her. I know I should, but somehow from my brain to my mouth it all goes wrong.

Oh stupid. Okay, so it’s more than that. I’m afraid. Yes, I can admit that. I’m afraid she’ll see how out of control my powers still get regarding her, and then she’ll know. She was right to feel afraid. She was right to think that letting me in to a part of her life was too dangerous. Too dangerous for me, because I’d be flipping out of control and melting down half the word, and too dangerous for her. It’s not just me that gets exposed anymore. It’s her too.

“You want your usual?”

Oh damn. I didn’t mean to grunt. There she goes. Thinking I am a bore. Now she is wondering what the hell is wrong with her, that made her climb into the Eraser Room with me for two and a half hours, and the best I can do is grunt at her, like she is nothing. Damn.

This really sucks.

“Here’s your order. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Okay now she’s waiting. Damn, there is a spark of hope in her eyes. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up. Just say something. Anything. “Ketchup?”

Shit. There it goes. That spark just died.

“Um…”

She's waiting. I hate that she waits, but really doesn’t expect much. Her face goes all blank, pale, like she is waiting to be slapped down again. I recognize that look. I should. I spent my whole childhood seeing it on my own face. When did this stupid thing we’re doing get to be so painful? When did I start to become an abuser? Say something. I love you. I miss you. I want you. Anything. Tell her about why you couldn’t come watch sing, no matter how much you wanted to. Tell her…

“What?”

“Huh?” Shit! Crap, crap, crap. That did it. She just threw up her hands and walked away. I just hurt her again.

“Maria!” She stopped, but she does not turning around. Doesn’t want me to see her cry, or know I hit her so hard. God. I am tired of this. “I'm sorry.”

She nods. I can barely see her face, but there is just a hint of a smile at her mouth. The edge draws up.

I’m in really dangerous area here. Landmines everywhere. If I keep this game up, holding her at bay, I’ll keep hurting her. A little more ever day. Those little hits are the worst. They hurt. They bleed. They add up. Soon she’ll think I am just using her for sex, and a small amount of pride will finally break through, and she’ll walk. This time for good.

Why does my pride need to give away to hers?

There should be someone I can ask. Someone I could talk to. Normal people. Real people. They have friends they can talk to, to help them along the way. Maybe I should just…

Shit! Oh damn. The ick couple. Boring and More Boring. Go away. No room at this booth. Busy. Nope. Nadda. Don’t sit down. Be a cutesy couple. Go drool over each other in private. Like Antar. Nice weather there this year. Eating. Sensitive stomach. Already have to put up with your mooing in my home, give a man a break.

No. Don’t do it. Go. Away.

“Michael.”

Shit!

“Maxwell.” Oh fuck, guess I have to acknowledge her too? “Liz.” Do not sit down. Move along. Go. Go off and be sticky together somewhere. Privacy. You want it. You crave it. Hell, I crave it. See my face? The Guerin "go away and don’t fuck with me" look. Hate you look. Go. Scat. Don’t….Shit.

Oh hell. They’re already giggling. Giddy. Oh, her hand is dropping to his leg suggestively. Eye contact. Oozing goo. Nasty shit. All this damn foreplay for what. Just fuck the bitch and get on to cheating on her with the next alien bitch that comes along. Get the hell out of my booth.

Pie?

Maria just swung by and deposited a piece of pie in front of me. Coconut cream. Extra whipped cream. Large bottle of Tabasco.

Oh damn. She loves me!

I am going to marry that girl someday. You betcha. I am going to tell her too, someday, you know when I get the right words…then I’ll tell her. It might take a while. I’ll get there. We’ll get there.

She is busy right now. Working. Talking to Max and Liz. Getting their orders. Pie. Love pie. Love it more because Maria gave it to me without me asking. I really need to get out of work, and maybe take her somewhere to show my appreciation. My place. Nope. Bad idea. One thing leads to another, and I owe ten homework assignments.

Hey!

“Maxwell, what are your plans tonight?”

“Liz and I were going to study at the apartment.”

The hell you are! Shit, that is my fucking castle you weepy eyed sap. Get your own place. Use the damn backseat of the Cheville. How the hell am I suppose to get my damn homework done with the annoying Liz Parker gurgling and giggling in the background?

“Not good.” That got their attention. “I’ve got a ton of homework, makeup stuff I need done by tomorrow. I need it quiet, so I can concentrate. You’ll have to find somewhere else to study. Maybe the library?”

Oh. Guess I rained on the Liz Parker me world. Her face just fell.

Maria to the rescue.

“What've you got to do?” She’s actually sitting next to me, sidles up to me. I like that. Her hip against mine. Nice. That little leaning thing she does. I can smell her. Forget talking. I just pass the assignments over to her. I marked out the Kyle ones.

“Oh god! Sixteen of them. This is impossible.”

“Six already done. Just ten more.” There. Now she thinks I was busy doing homework. Good. A break.

“You can’t work. You’ll never get this done. Even if you stay up all night.” Maria. She is really a take charge type of woman. Doesn’t mess around whining. Action. “I’ll go tell Mr. Parker you can’t work. Finish your pie.”

She’s good. Real good. She got me out of my shift. Told Mr. Parker that school work always has to come first. Took care of my food. Gave me pie. Shooed Max and Liz away. She was done with her shift. She took me to her house. After some digging, lots of Maria cursing….that means ‘shoot’ and ‘damn’, she located four of the assignments that she had done.

Down to six.

We go back to my place, and she takes three of them. That leaves me three to do. She hates to see me fail. Somehow, she finds a way to imply that I’m better than that. And I like that.

So yeah, I hate Mondays. They really suck. But every once in a while, a Monday can turn out alright.

I told Maria I was sorry. She smiled. It works. For us, it works. She likes to be acknowledged. It’s never how much attention, or how much money is spent. Just the care that is taken. Little things go a long way with her. Like clean sheets. It says ‘I love you’ in a special way.

Did I mention that I had changed my sheets?

Good thing.

So I hate Tuesdays too. I have a whole list of why I hate Tuesdays. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime, but don’t hold your breath. This Tuesday started out not so bad. I was late getting up. After all, my alarm clock was fried yesterday. Add in the strands of blonde hair across my chest, and the armful of warm flesh, and then you’d understand that this was a definite skip school day. Plus, those last six assignments?

Yeah, they never got done.

Hey! Cut it out! I told you. We got that thing. She looks at me. I look at her. Then bam! Instant hot monkey sex. Add in some pretty nice pillow talk, and I’m happy to say I finally told her why I couldn’t watch her sing. Well, you know. Sort of. But Maria understands.

Are we together? Hell, we were never really apart.

People say that I don’t talk. That I grunt, or when I talk it is just small fast phrases, no information, taciturn and rude. Stand-offish. Damn rude.

I honestly don’t know what they’re talking about.

I never shut the fuck up.

Maybe people just need to learn how to listen.