CHAPTER 14
ZAREK
Earth archivists are strictly prohibited from consuming mind-altering substances while on Earth-bound assignments, but what fun is karaoke without a drink or two?
I never thought I’d be disappointed by a naked Ellie, but as I clean up the train car while Ellie showers, I realize it is possible.
Once I’m done, I change into denim pants and a soft, short-sleeve shirt Ellie lovingly called a ‘douchebag henley,’ and sit patiently, waiting for her to finish getting ready.
When she comes out of the bathroom, Ellie looks like she always does. Her eyelashes are a little darker and longer, her cheeks a rosy pink, but otherwise the same.
Absolutely radiant.
She walks toward me, and her dress shifts strangely.
It could be the way she’s walking—I’ve never seen Ellie in a dress before—but it is almost as though there’s something wrong with the material.
It’s a dark brown, with little flowers cut out of the fabric at the top.
There is a belt made of the same material, which appears light and comfortable, and it cinches in her waist, accentuating the curve of her hips and ass.
“What is that?”
As if on cue, Ellie grins ear-to-ear, spreading her legs to reveal her dress is not a dress at all. “It’s a jumpsuit!”
On Terilia, we were taught clothing should serve practical purposes.
When studying Earth, it was interesting to learn that garments were more than that.
Long ago, clothing was made by hand. Women could tell who something belonged to, or where it came from, by the textiles alone.
Now, as human society advanced and the Industrial Revolution changed its course, things are different.
Clothing is still important to humanity, but not in the same ways. Trends are a big deal, as is self-expression and identity. We were taught to look down on it, that humans were lesser for these qualities, but I actually find them to be endearing.
Ellie always reminded me of the sapphiro, caring more about practicality than appearance, but it’s nice to see this other side of her.
She seems to like not only the comfort of this garment, but also the way she feels in it, and although I am aware it is biologically improbable, I suddenly understand the expression about hearts skipping a beat.
“You look lovely,” I say. She mumbles a quiet thanks, and I follow her off the train and out onto the streets of Toulouse.
Terracotta brick is everywhere we look, the city truly living up to its nickname, every building a different shade of salmon, orangey-tan, or pink.
“Are we walking aimlessly until we find a place, or did you have somewhere in mind?” I ask, the night air a bit too cool against my skin.
“I know we haven’t known each other very long, but seriously?”
I let out a soft chuckle. “Apologies. Where are we heading, Captain Ellie?”
“There are a few districts with bars and pubs. The closest one is Rue Gabriel-Péri. I figured I’d get us there, and then let you choose the restaurant or bar that suits your fancy,” she explains, and I nod.
“Perfect.”
Our fingers brush as we walk, and I want to hold her hand, but I am not sure she would want that. I also don’t know what the societal expectations are in terms of public displays of affection in France.
In my studies of Earth, countries like the United States have couples who go so far as to kiss (with tongue) in line at Disney World.
Other nations, like Japan, prefer less ostentatious declarations of their love, and opt for things like matching outfits.
Kuwait, and other more reserved nations, view kissing in public as indecent.
I have no idea where France falls on the spectrum of appropriate levels of affection, but as we pass a couple enthralled with one another on an outdoor restaurant terrace, I think I have my answer.
Ellie’s doe eyes widen in response, her glasses making them appear even larger. “I feel like we just watched someone get conceived.”
“Maybe the child will grow up to be a famous mathematician, and when he writes his autobiography, he will mention how he owes it all to this one restaurant in Toulouse, and we’ll read it and know we were there,” I jest, and Ellie laughs, though I can’t tell if it’s genuine or not.
“Are you planning to read a lot about mathematicians? I thought you had a preference for plants.”
“I am a sapphiro, and I contain multitudes,” I say, vaguely quoting a poem I remember from a class I took back on Terilia.
Becoming a human archivist was an exhausting process, but I recall Maya Angelou, Robert Frost, and the other writers from American Literature with much more fondness than I do writers like Victor Hugo and Leo Tolstoy.
Maybe I was better suited to Utah, United States, than Paris, France after all.
“Alright. You’re the one who wanted to go out, where are we going?” Ellie asks, and I search the busy street.
My night vision is not great, and it’s even worse with these contacts in.
I wish I could activate the light on my BLEND, but that would look absurd.
Scanning the street, I stare out at the pedestrians, bright lights, and neon signs until I spot someone through a window, standing on a small platform, singing into a microphone.
“There,” I say, pointing to the building.
Ellie appears as though she’s about to protest, but sighs as she drags me toward the doors. Inside, the room is dark, and it smells like perfume, cigarettes, and something sharp. Chemical-like.
“Is everyone here consuming spirits?”
“What is this, an exorcism?” Ellie asks with a laugh. “You sound like you’re from the prohibition era. Yes, everyone here is drinking alcohol.”
“Is it good?”
She scrunches her nose, like she’s not sure how to answer. “It can be.” Her shoulders shrug. “It can be really delicious, or really gross, depending on how they make it. Have you never had alcohol?”
“No, it is not something we have on Terilia. We do have glufo. It comes from one of the more common flora. It’s like…a drink derived from a mild neurotoxin. It makes me drowsy and unfocused,” I share.
“Does it taste good?”
I shake my head. “No, it is quite awful.”
“Then let’s get you something good.”
Ellie walks us up to the bar, the music blasting as a patron sings about a showgirl with feathers in her hair, and leans on the wooden edge.
She and the bartender exchange words in French, and when he returns, there are two glasses filled with lilac-colored liquid inside.
“He said Toulouse is famous for their violet liqueur. I thought you’d like it since it’s a flower,” she says, and my heart melts as we take our first sips. “It’s also got gin and some other ingredients.”
“It tastes delicious,” I say, taking another large sip. It’s sweet like candy, but also a little earthy. “Like how I imagine smelling a forest would taste.”
“You are so strange,” Ellie says. “I love it.”
Her face flushes pink with embarrassment, and I glance away, pretending not to notice. I am trying to be good and respect her boundaries. I am pretty certain she genuinely likes me, but I know there are reservations there too.
Mainly, the fact that I am…well…an alien, as she would put it.
I live with a different set of rules and expectations, on a completely different planet.
And she is not wrong. As a sapphiro, I am expected to work the job I was born into, and maybe one day be paired with a partner, should they find someone suited for me.
Except, I’m not positive they ever will. For one, I think the government is well aware I am seen as strange and often overwhelming by my peers. But for another, I think the being most suited for me isn’t a sapphiro at all.
She is human. Elliott Benshoof, to be precise.
My body starts to relax, my muscles no longer aching, and there’s a rush of warmth to my chest, causing me to feel warm and fuzzy. It’s a really great, euphoric kind of reaction, and I smile at Ellie, hoping she feels it too.
Ellie looks more concerned than overjoyed.
“Are you alright?” she asks as we take our seats at two adjacent barstools facing the small platform where performances are being held.
“I am fantastic. Are these people all professional singers?”
“No,” Ellie replies. She leans in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “They’re not that good.”
“Why do they get to go on stage then?”
Both corners of her lips turn up, and I think she genuinely enjoys teaching me about her culture—about humanity. “It’s called karaoke. Anyone can sign up and sing. They’ll even provide the words.”
That sounds fun. “Where do I sign-up? Do you want to sing a duet together?”
Ellie physically balks. “I would rather give a presentation on why archaeology is a dead field of study than sing karaoke in a bar full of strangers.”
“It is literally the study of remains…what could be more dead than that?”
One of her eyes twitches, and I cannot lie, at this point, pissing her off just turns me on. There is something wildly attractive about the fire and passion she exudes when she is angry.
“You know what I mean.” She takes another sip of her drink, and I eye it with yearning. Ellie passes her glass over to me. “Here, you can have the rest since you seem to like it so much.”
I take it, downing the sweet liquid in one quick swallow.
Ellie gets her phone from her bag, and lifts it up to take a picture of a small, strange symbol printed onto a laminated sign. “I’ll sign you up for karaoke, but I will leave if you try to make me join you.”
I should have known singing in public would not be Ellie’s thing, but with the way this drink has me feeling, I cannot imagine not finding every little thing about being alive enjoyable. From deep conversation, to smelling the flowers, and singing for an inebriated crowd, it all sounds delightful.
Ellie hands her phone to me, and there is a long list of song titles. Je t’emmène au vent, Sweet Caroline, La Tribu de Dana.
“What about Party in the USA? I have heard that one before,” I suggest but Ellie shakes her head.
“Only if you want everyone in the room to hate you.”