Talk Vomit

By Gretta Trafficante

SHE, EXTRATERRESTRIAL
Five months on Earth, and she learned human behaviors could be broken down into three motives: they liked things, they disliked things, and they needed things.
This rule explained how they grocery shopped — picking up each frozen lasagna or brussel sprout, diagnosing their feelings upon contact, and reacting accordingly. She used this trick to select her human lover the other day. Good, she thought upon spotting him in the supermarket aisle, tenderly comparing raw steaks, and reacted accordingly.

HE, HUMAN
He walked around every day thankful not to believe in god. No one talked about how exhausting religious devotion was — your every act constrained by whether it was virtuous, or whether it needed patched with apology.

He was strolling around the meat department with this gratitude in mind when he ran into her, open-mouthed and clutching a tray of lemon bars. She told him not to be afraid, but that she was otherworldly. He was enamored, and annoyed, because he knew he was about to go back on his dismissal of worship.

SHE, EXTRATERRESTRIAL
Late one night, after okay sex, she told him she worked hard so that one day, she could be full of the human experiences she liked most. Human? he asked, struggling to imagine it.

HE, HUMAN
Late one night, after amazing sex, he told her he worked hard so that one day, his kids would be comfortable enough to criticize his work ethic. Kids? she asked, struggling to imagine it.

SHE, EXTRATERRESTRIAL
She was in a park, sharing lemon bars with women she aspired to be. Do we want to be mothers? she asked, fiddling citrus-stained fingers. They just laughed, and she did not quite understand. She tried again: I mean, is motherhood filling? They just laughed, and she did not quite understand.

HE, HUMAN
He was in the gym, sweating amongst strangers. He thought he kept himself so restricted because otherwise he would not know where to stop. Tight boundaries or limitless leash were his only options; anything in-between he could not quite understand.

SHE, EXTRATERRESTRIAL
After some pestering, the women in the park told her she did not have to be a mother. They promised it in the same unsteady tone used to say it was okay to leave your legs unshaved, or go out late by yourself, or eat a second lemon bar.

She noticed no one grabbed a second lemon bar.

She felt betrayed by the hidden hunger in their voices. Would they not admit to dieting because they were ashamed, or just well-acclimated?

HE, HUMAN
He had decided to feed every stray dog he ran into, because otherwise he’d fantasize about snapping its neck. Some weeks, there were no strays to throw scraps to, and the raw meat spoiled; the next week, he always bought more.
He noticed none of his neighbors fed the strays.

He felt betrayed by these strangers around him. Why did nobody own up and tell him: were they not caring for strays because they had no violent compulsions, or had they just found a way to snap necks in private?

SHE, EXTRATERRESTRIAL
The next morning, she addressed her human lover over a breakfast of eggs Benedict. If we go on like this, she said, I will grow very hungry. I may even get used to it. She took another bite and left the room.

He did not realize this was a break up.

HE, HUMAN
He had not realized it was a break up.

He had not realized he’d lost his boundary lines until he was wandering well past them. He had been right, worship was worthless.

She had been wrong, he was starving, too.

THINGS SHE LIKED: How her image rippled beneath the bubble bath. Looking through the water, veiled by suds, she could almost pretend she was back home.

THINGS HE LIKED: How gently the door he’d lock-picked slid open. Looking around the living room, encased in shadow, he could almost pretend he was still home.

THINGS SHE DISLIKED: How old houses creaked at night. How they thought invoking the sounds of ghosts would make her feel less alone, and not just raise the hairs on her neck.

THINGS HE DISLIKED: How old houses heard his footsteps and just had to gossip. How all the pictures of them in the hallway were taken down, as if he weren’t even worthy of haunting her.

THINGS SHE LIKED: Humming under her breath. Not the sound, but the vibrations — they quelled her fury, even as she gripped the side of the tub, as she stared at the bathroom door, as the handle slowly turned.

THINGS HE LIKED: Hearing her hum softly. Not the sound, but the significance — that surely she suspected nothing, even as his breaths quickened, as he reached the bathroom door, as he turned the handle ever so slowly.

THINGS SHE DISLIKED: His face in the doorway, too familiar, unoriginal, contorted with rage and infection and misguided cravings that she’d always suspected lurked underneath.

THINGS HE DISLIKED: Her face in the tub, unrecognizable, completely alien, beset with tentacles and fangs and bared honesties he’d never have suspected lurked underneath.

THINGS SHE NEEDED: To pluck him from the bathroom tiles as he shrieked.

THINGS SHE NEEDED: To bring him to her wide open mouth as he screamed.

THINGS SHE NEEDED: To chew him slowly as he cried.

THINGS SHE NEEDED: To savor his erasure as he went silent.

THINGS SHE NEEDED: To laugh at her confirmation that humans starved for no good reason.

THINGS SHE NEEDED: To spit him out.

THINGS SHE NEEDED: To dry herself off.

THINGS SHE NEEDED: To leave this planet.

THINGS SHE NEEDED: To get fucking full.