“You’d better not be there when she comes,” I said. “This is
her ‘Alien-free Zone’ and you know what that means.”
“I can disappear in a thing that occurs suddenly and within
a brief period of time, when I need to.”
“Disappearing in a ‘flash’ would be a good idea,” I said.
He crossed his legs and said, “So the two you have made it
another year.”
“We have indeed.”
“How many is this?”
“We are celebrating 42 years,” I said.
He pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and then a pen. “Why
did you never get a divorce?”
“What do you mean?”
“Lots of couples among your species get divorced. Why didn’t
you?”
“We didn’t want to.”
“How did you meet? I know it wasn’t on ‘Christian Mingle’ or
at a meeting of the Mensa Society.”
I let this one pass. “We met in a parking lot.”
“Let me guess. A collision involving motor vehicles that
results in minor damage. She was at fault and you were kind and forgiving.”
“No, it wasn’t a ‘fender bender,’ I was putting a headlight
in my car and she walked by.”
He scribbled. “That doesn’t sound very romantic.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you run in slow motion toward each other?”
“No. She walked on by.”
“And you followed?” He scribbled again.”
“No. I just inquired about her later.”
“You engaged in an instance of following, or harassing
another in an aggressive, often threatening manner?”
“I didn’t ‘stalk’ her and you need to get your Galactic
Universal Translator adjusted again.”
“I trust my GUT,” he said. He raised his pad, ”How was your
sex life?”
“C.W.,” I said, “people don’t discuss such things in public.”
“They do on your television. And you know that coffee shop I
go to sometimes to gather data?”
“Well decent people don’t,” I said, “and she is due any
moment and may be carrying a baseball bat, if you get my drift.”
“What does the concept of your being carried slowly by a
current of air or water have to do with anything?”
I could tell times were going to be tough until his GUT was
back in working order, so I tacked.
“How do marriages work in Falloonia?”
“We have numerous bonding arrangements. Which one do you
mean?”
“The one that produces offspring,” I said. “How does it
work?”
“Entirely different,” he said. “Entirely different.”
“How so?”
“The fecundity directive, we call it the ‘Propagation
Implementation Methodology Protocol’ is established and supervised by the Falloonian
Elders.”
I giggled, “PIMP? Is that what you really call it?”
“I don’t see the humor,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. His feelings can be tender at times. “So
these elders are a cross-section of the population?”
He looked at me in confusion. “No,” he said, “they are
mainly Dormontapeckastaatsins”
“What?”
“What would roughly translate as elderly men in your
species.”
 |
| Was she hot, or what? - C.W. |
“Oh,” I said. “So how does your PIMP program work.” I couldn’t
help giggling again.
“It requires a level of sophisticated thought you wouldn’t
understand. It is totally different than you are used to.”
“Try me,” I said.
“The Elders grant the Studanstrokashaftic++—the
equivalent of your male of the species—absolute control of the arrangement.”
“I see.”
“But,” he said, “Since there is such a sexual intelligence
disparity in our life forms, the other partner must manage the arrangement
through disguised manipulation, trickery, and superior logistic mastery,
otherwise the propagation capacity of the, what you call male, is diminished
and the future population of our planet will be threatened.”
“And,” a woman’s voice from behind us said, “your concept of
marriage differs from ours in exactly what way?”
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