Zaliel
Zaliel watched Ben go back into the house, unsure what he was trying to gesticulate, but she knew when Humans made exaggerated gestures it usually meant they would be right back or something obscene. Ben didn’t strike her as the kind of person to smile and make a rude gesture and it’s not like she parked a shuttle on her old flight instructor’s bicycle, again.
She sat and watched the clouds and ocean and the few people walking along the beach. She felt a great sense of peace as she sipped fresh blueberry tea; nearly forgetting what brought her here, to her best friend’s brother’s house.
Since Amanda confronted her a few weeks ago in the concourse, all Zaliel wanted to do was make it up to her. Then maybe she could sleep at night. It was torment upsetting her, even though Amanda hadn’t brought Donovan’s party up since.
I really messed up, she reminded herself again and again: Amanda said she was there for her, even loved her in that sisterly way Zaliel had always wanted growing up: to have and be someone’s sister. To get into trouble and go on adventures and talk about books and school and always protect each other. Now that seemed in jeopardy, Zaliel had to go to the the ends of the Earth—or, at least to the beach—to do something before it was, in her mind, too late.
All of those things, all of those fears were melting away. She listened to the surf, the gulls. The air was just the right amount of salty, just the right taste. She closed her eyes—Ben’s prolonged absence didn’t register—just a moment, of course, just a moment, to capture this joy in her mind forever.
Zaliel awoke several hours later. It was night, cool and clear in California. The docile sounds of the beach still played calm melodies in her ears, though she couldn’t see the ocean in the darkness. Luna was mostly dark except for the thousands of pinpointed lights which reminded her that millions of people called that cold rock home.
She shifted and realized, for the first time, that a heavy, warm blanket had been draped over her. A soft orange glow on the railing nearby caught her attention. It was different from the strings of gentle, white lights which twinkled dimly like distant stars; winding their course around the deck’s railing.
Zaliel slowly sat upright and yawned long as she stretched. That’s when she saw a movement from her side: Ben was reading a book from a small display, the screen tuned so dark it barely lit his face. He looked so serious, so contemplative that Zaliel was reminded of A Great Thinker. She watched him for a time as he methodically scrolled and drank from a mug. He eventually noticed her and smiled, warm and kind. She was reminded of a passage she once read; I would touch such lips with mine o’er a life bereft of knowing. Zaliel had always loved the passage as the hopeless romantic she wanted to be, but it wasn’t until Ben smiled that she understood what it meant.
“You’re awake,” he said. She watched him set his reading to the side to come over to her. He sat on the edge of her lounge chair and reached for the little orange light on the rial. He had to lean slightly over her legs and she noticed he steadied himself on her shin—but only for a moment, which he immediately apologized for.
“What does that do?” Zaliel asked. He had been very gentle with the object as he lifted, inspected, and set it down again.
“It’s a bug repeller: it deters most of them, but it traps others.” He pressed a button and the light changed so she could see about a dozen insects dormant inside the cone. “They’re alive,” he said assuringly. “I’ll set them free when we go to bed.”
Zaliel raised her eyebrows.
“I mean,” he stammered, “when we leave the deck and, I only assumed since it’s so late, you’d take one of the other rooms, of course.” Even in the soft twinkle light, she could see him blush.
Zaliel smiled and touched his arm—his body was so warm!—and said, “Of course,” but offered nothing else. She was analyzing him, weighing what she knew: he was contemplative, affectionate, gentle, and respectful. And she sensed his interest in her. Not in the supernatural way a telepath might; rather, by reading his behavior; the way he stayed close and stumbled over himself as he tried to explain why he let her sleep (for five hours!) instead of wake her. How he noticed she still seemed cold after he put the first blanket on (and replaced it with the heavier one she had now). How he made sure to keep the bugs and sun away while she napped.
Though they had shared so little time and few words together, she found herself developing a rather strong affection for him. She reveled in the feeling of it; wondering how far it would go. But he seemed so shy that it hit her: he’s afraid of me like I’m afraid of him. It was a revolutionary thought.
She resolved not to wait and find out how far things would go. She would challenge herself here and now.
“How late is it?” Zaliel asked in a quiet voice. He was still at the foot of the lounge chair.
“A little past midnight.”
“Hand me my purse, please,”she asked him. It was seated on a stack of extra deck chairs. She watched as Ben moved and imagined the way his muscles shifted as he leaned and stretched. “Have you ever been sculpted?” she asked as he handed her the bag. She made a point of brushing her hand against his during the exchange.
“No?” he responded. “I once modeled for a drawing class for points towards a grade, though.”
“Drawing? That’s so impersonal!” Zaliel dug into her bag and retrieved a hypospray. She applied it to her skin, released its dose, and placed it back in the bag. She imagined he noticed, but he didn’t say anything.
Ben seemed more comfortable talking about art. “I don’t know. You can get a real feel for an object when you trace its lines.”
“But that’s not real feeling, is it?,” Zaliel asked as she slid closer. “When you sculpt, you feel the weight, the pressure, the shape in your hands as it takes form.” She turned him slightly and ran her hands along his back to his shoulders. He didn’t protest, so she stayed there, kneading his shoulders, feeling out his muscles, as if he were clay to be molded.
He gulped and offered a strained, “Yeah,” as if he might find everything very casual, except it wasn’t.
“Working with clay requires your whole body,” she said as her hands traveled along his muscles. “The strength to shape, the wisdom to know when to be firm or gentle, the endurance to keep going when everything aches at once. Is anything else like it?”
Ben didn’t reply. His eyes were closed and he was very content to let whatever was happening keep happening.
Zaliel turned him gently so they were facing then drew him close.”Do you like me, Human?” she asked, a hair’s breath from his lips, her eyes locked with his. She knew it was an odd way to ask. She might have said his name—it was as alien a sound as hers was to him—but she wanted to draw him to the physical differences between them.
“Yes.” The word was barely audible.
“It will be different for you,” Zaliel continued, a hand combing through his short, curly hair. “I’m different,” she added. “Do you understand?” And here her anxiety flared. She searched his expression for any hint of rejection or hesitation because, though there was no way for him to know it, she had placed her heart in his hands.
“I don’t care,” he said so quietly, she smiled at the timidness of his conviction.
“Prove it to me.”
And he did.