The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 8

Mercury

Morning came quickly, the alarm shrieking Art awake. He moved slowly, his head throbbing slightly, his mouth like sandpaper. David lay next to him. She was wearing nothing but a white t-shirt. She looked so tiny in the queen bed, like a little bird in a great big nest. She still breathed the breath of sleep, and Art was too wary to touch her. He slipped away quietly. He drank two handfuls of water from the bathroom sink and brushed away the night.

He looked over at her, lying still on the bed. She was so fair, so still, she could have been dead. She was dead, wasn't she? Or had been dead? He didn't know. Who was this figure in his home, on his bed, in his mind, in his heart? He studied her features. They were perfect. There was nothing out of place, but nothing natural. As quietly as he could, Art fumbled through his record collection and found his one David Bowie album – The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. He stared at the figure on the cover, the tall, lean, pale as dust alien Ziggy Stardust. He stared at David. She looked just like him. Even more so than Tilda Swinton. She could be his daughter. She could be him. When he thought about it, when he let himself think about it, think about her, how they met, how she is, it frightened him to continue thinking that way. He was so blissfully happy believing the tale they told, that he did not want to believe anything less. But Art was a man of reason. But he was also a man of desperation. If David was not David, what would become of him?

Art allowed himself to sit on the bed next to David. He watched her sleeping, wondered if she was dreaming. He knew he had to get a shower, get ready for work, but he couldn't take himself away from her. He looked for a freckle, a mole, a wrinkle or laugh line, but her skin was perfect, like it was manufactured. But she was not perfect. Her little finger was bandaged tight with gauze and tape. He did not remember her injuring herself at any time, but dismissed it.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she turned her head slightly, waking. Art jumped off the bed and fled to the other side of the room, stuffing the record back in its place. He tried to act like he had just woken up, exaggerating a stretch and yawn. He feigned surprise at David sitting up in bed. "Oh, good morning," he said.

"Have you been up long?" David asked sleepily.

"No, I just woke up," said Art. "Right now. Just opened my eyes a second ago."

David looked at him doubtfully but did not expand. She rubbed her eyes and looked at the bandage on her little finger. She peeled the tape and gauze back a little for a peek.

"What happened?" Art asked.

David shrugged. "Nothing. Just a hangnail." She rose to her feet and stretched, Art trying to keep his eyes to the sky instead of at the rising hemline of the white t-shirt. "I'm going to make us some coffee," she said. "Unless you want that dreadful tea?"

"No thanks," said Art. "I would love a coffee." He looked at the clock. "I'd better get showered for work. Will you be okay here again today?"

"Of course I will. Maybe I'll see what trouble Doris and I can get into." She smiled and stepped lightly to the living room. Art couldn't not look at her skinny bottom when she inadvertently lifted the back of the shirt to scratch her back. He tried desperately unsuccessfully to look away when she slipped off the shirt completely. She was not modest, but did not make a production about showing her body. It was completely natural to her. She didn't care if Art looked or did not look. There was no purpose in it. She was like an animal or a baby, unaware of her nakedness.

Art didn't want to invade her privacy, but he did want a closer look at those pictures of her nipples, so meticulously drawn that from this distance they looked like the real deal, at the emptiness where her navel should be. If he hadn't been so close to her the first time he saw her naked, he would not think anything was amiss this time. His mind swam for answers, but found none. Before he could see if there was anything else out of place, she stepped into the neck of a t-shirt emblazoned with rabbits. She had apparently sewn a seam at the center of hemline to transform the shirt into a tiny romper. She bounced like a rabbit into the kitchen to make the coffee.

Art showered and dressed in his ensemble as planned by David. It was the first outfit he had modeled the night before, and he felt no less spectacular in it this morning. When he saw David at the kitchen table with her coffee, he wanted so badly to walk over and kiss her good-bye. Instead, he took a deep breath and greeted her like a roommate. "Thank you for making coffee," he said. "And thank you again for the clothes."

"You look great," remarked David.

"I feel great," said Art.

"I hope you have a lovely day at the office," said David. She smiled over her mug and Art's heart leapt in his throat. He kept his feet firmly in place so he could not reach her with his mouth. He almost said I love you.

"Thank you. I hope you have a great day, too."

Closing the door and locking it behind him, Art lingered in the hallway. He pressed his hand against the door and leaned his forehead against it as well. He heard no sound inside, no shuffling of feet or clearing of throat. David was so quiet, like a spirit floating in the room. She probably did float when he wasn't around. Reluctantly, he left David.

"Yoo-hoo, Arthur!" Mrs. Pritchard called in the lobby. She was coming in from her morning walk, wearing a teal velour tracksuit that would have looked equally at home on a gangster rapper. Her little bichon frise stood obediently at her feet.

"Good morning Mrs. Pritchard, Mollie," he addressed each of them in turn.

"Don't you look fine today," the old woman remarked. "What a lovely color on you. It makes you look so handsome."

"Thanks to you and David, I have a lot more than khaki to choose from," he said.

"From which to choose," Mrs. Pritchard corrected. "Do you know if David is planning anything today, dear?" she asked. "I was hoping to invite her down for tea."

"I wouldn't do that," said Art quickly.

Pritchard was taken aback. "Why not?" she asked indignantly.

"She has an aversion to tea." He didn't know what else to say.

"But I thought, being English-"

"So did I."

"Coffee then?"

"Coffee then."

"I will ring her this afternoon," said Mr. Pritchard. "Have a wonderful day, dear. And don't worry, I will look after your friend."

"I appreciate that. You have a nice day as well." Art bounded down the front steps into the walkway. He was again thrilled to be alive, to be a part of this world of people. People noticed him walking, almost strutting in his burgundy slacks. He smiled at them, took a little bow. He wished he had a hat to tip. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would wear a hat. Many people responded in kind, but there were still the loners, the doubters, the skeptics. Oh, I'll break through to you, he thought, taking mental notes of the faces that fought him. What's the use of this life if you don't share it with others?

On the train, he struck up a conversation with an old veteran, and he wasn't sure who gained more from it. He couldn't believe he had been so selfish all his life not to be sharing conversation with others, and for what? Because he thought he didn't have anything to offer, wasn't interesting enough? To hell with him being interesting! It's the others he wants to know about, learn from. What could he offer this retired navy captain? A sounding board, an opportunity to share his story, maybe to get something off his chest to ease his anxiety, or a chance to boast about his accolades. A way for his story to go on. Life everlasting! You never die if you have somebody to carry you forth.

When Art reached his stop and walked to his building, there was Tony waiting for his entrance: Act 1, Scene 1, Wednesday. The role he played each morning, but this time, the script had changed. "Morning, Art," he said cheerfully.

"Nice to see you, Tony," replied Art. His momentary fear that yesterday had been a fluke disappeared in that moment. He knew today and every day forth could and would be magnificent.