Sän's is here.
Zoli liked to hang around psychiatrists' waiting rooms to hit on the low self-esteem chicks. That was where he met the first alien he ever truly loved. The girl’s name was Candy or Sandy or something like that. She wore a polka-dotted jumpsuit that she probably bought in junior high and had been the one cool piece of clothing she owned. Hence, she still wore it. But it had a lot of buttons that looked like they might be fun to undo.
“I started hanging around my dad’s work a lot,” she was saying, “in seventh grade. It was nicer helping the ladies in the lab sort samples than try to make real friends. At least the lab ladies appreciated me.”
“You look like you could use some appreciating,” he cut her off before she went on too long. “Let’s ditch these head shrinkers and talk about it over martinis.” Martinis always impressed them, and tasted weird enough that they never noticed the roofie.
“Oh, Rapinki won’t won’t let me drink alcohol,” she said. “She says it could damage her eggs, and they’re not fertilized yet.”
Christ, he'd found a hallucinator. Where were the nice, easy depressives when you needed them? But she was the only one in the waiting room and he was feeling the strain of a lonely week without a lay, so he may as well see what lie beyond those pink and black buttons.
“There’s an ice cream parlor around the corner,” she said, “that’s got one of those old pacman tabletop arcade games.
Hours later, she was on his couch, and he was popping those buttons open. He wiggled his fingers in between the halves of her shirt, and met Rapinki. Little tentacles stung him between his fingers, working their way under his skin.
“Rapinki likes you,” Candy or Sandy said. “I’ll miss her, but you’ll be able to fertilize her, and I can’t. You’re the best.”