Layla and Her Alien

by Andrea Allen

  I try not to laugh, but fail.

  “That’s mean.”

  “Well, what he said to you and what our boss said to you this morning was rude and uncalled for. The least I could do is damn their futures to shit.”

  “I’m just ready for this phase of a fresh divorce to just move on already.”

  “I can help with that.”

  “How, exactly, Chels?”

  “The only way you can heal from this, and I’m just saying it this way because I know you, you need to meet a guy, someone much more attractive than Scott, no offense,” she says, raising her hands in defense, “and have him fuck your brains out.”

  I practically spit out my soup.

  “Listen, Mary. That’s how it works. The best way to move on from someone, is to get closer to someone else.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But I don’t know how to meet or talk to men. I haven’t had an excuse to. Or even had the time.”

  “Yet Scott gave you plenty of that by brushing up on his skills.”

  I shrug. “Guess so.”

  “Well, how about this? Tonight, you come with me to the speed-date session that’s being hosted on Broadway.”

  “Speed-dating?” I say. “Oh, no, Chels. I can’t speed-date. That’s nowhere near my kind of thing.”

  “Mary, we are in our thirties.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “We’re pushing the bar on becoming the elderly. We don’t have time to wait around. We’re not as young as we used to be and men our age are going for the younger girls. They’re stealing from our roster.”

  I laugh.

  “At our age, speed-dating is the best thing to do. ‘Hey, I’m Jake, I’m a mechanic. Hi, I’m Mary, I’m writer.’ Boom! You know each other and now he can fuck you on his oil-stained used-cars.” We both laugh and as it dies down between us, her face becomes a bit more serious.

  “I’m just saying give it a try. It’s day one. That’s the hardest day of them all—if you allow it be.”

  I think about it for a few moments and picture myself sitting on my couch, eating ice cream, watching soaps and probably crying. That’s what I would be doing right now. Or, I can trust my best friend, take the crazy risk of speed-dating, and the worst that can happen is I find no one I liked, but I would have said I tried.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “So, we’re going?”

  “Yes, we’re going.”

  “Great! We should get changed though. I still smell like warm, fresh-out-the-printer paper.”

  Chapter 3

  We get over to Broadway, and the crowd outside is packed, more than I had expected. Apparently, Chels was right. For people our age, speed-dating is the way to go. At least, I wonder, with this many people, is it that they are in search of someone for the first time tonight or do they come often, in which then that tells me there’s not luck here. The line moves forward and people bundle together to keep warm. When we get to the front, we are let in by a few security guards and an MC hops on stage. He’s dressed casually, and has shoes shinier than what I’ve ever seen.

  “Alright, can everybody here me okay?”

  “Yes!” roars the crowd.

  “Okay, just to kick things off, I’ll explain how everything goes. This,” he holds up a small, rectangular electronic, “is the timer. We are going to set the timer for two minutes. When time is up,” he presses a button and it blares. “That’s what you’ll here. You’ll have one of two choices. You can either exchange information to meet again or decide to pass. At that point, the men will go to the next table, and the process will continue. Everybody got that?”

  “Yes!”

  “Alright, let’s get started. Can I have the women take a seat at a table, please?”

  “Alright, Mary, good luck,” Chels says.

  “You too.”

  “Won’t need it.”

  I take a seat at one of the tables and as everything settles, the men are left standing before us. Some are dressed casually as though they came straight from work, and others look as though they haven’t bathed in weeks. It reminds me of Scott, which makes this process much easier.

  One by one, as men sit before me, surprisingly, none of them seem any more interesting than Scott. This process went from being easier than expected to being disappointing. The first guy that sat before me was handsome, but he’s also going through a divorce too. I’m not looking for a rebound, or maybe, perhaps, I’m supposed to be. The second guy smelled like beer and a pack of cigarettes. The third was close to being interesting until he asked what I liked in bed. Sighs.

  “Hey,” I hear Chels whisper, as the men look for another table. “How’s it going?”

  “Terrible,” I say. “Why’d you bring me here?”

  “I’m sorry I thought that—” Chels eyes practically fall out of her sockets. “Whoa, you got incoming.”

  A shadow casts above me. I refrain from looking.

  “Incoming?”

  She nods. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Like bullet-big.”

  “Mm mmm. More like torpedo.”

  “Ahem,” I hear him say. I slowly turn to my visitor and static runs along my arms. I go from cold to warm in an instant.

  “S-Sorry,” I say.

  “You haven’t done any harm. Can I sit?”

  “Yes…Of course.”

  Who is this that dropped out of the sky? I’ve seen beauty in men, but, I’ll be damned. His eyes are hazel-brown, his hair a jet-black, and his voice holds a broad bass. Hmm, white button shirt beneath a black leather coat, has a bit of some chest peeking above the top. He fills out his clothes quite nice. Might be my age, or getting close to it I presume. I’m not particularly interested in being some cougar. This is somebody’s son.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Mary,” I say. He smiles, and it’s adorable.

  “Mary,” he repeats to himself, with a throaty rasp in his voice. “I’m Artimus.”

  “Artimus? Wow. That’s…quite a name, are you..?”

  “American?” he says. Then starts to shake his head. “No. Parisian.”

  “I’ve always wanted to live in Paris. What brings you all the way over here to the States?”

  “Ehh, just needed a different taste for a bit.”

  “So, I must ask.” He seems a bit interested in my next question. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Whoa. You don’t look a day over twenty-six. How do you do that?”

  “With the proper diet.”

  “So, you eat healthy?”

  He smiles, almost as though he’s about to laugh, but then, it fades.

  “I have healthy, hearty meals, yes.”

  “And what do you do for work?”

  “I don’t.”

  Red flag.

  “I’ve inherited much money over the years, so I just tend to move around a lot. Vacation. Eat quite a bit. I have practically everything I need.”

  Scrap the red flag.

  “But,” he continues. “I sometimes feel something is missing. An—emptiness.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He sits silent and doesn’t respond nor make eye contact.

  “Artimus?”

  “Tell me about you,” he says. “What’s your story?”

  “There…isn’t much. There isn’t much money either like yours, I can tell you that. But there’s also an emptiness, too. I just signed divorce papers this morning with my ex-husband. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. Umm, I have rough days at work. My boss is always giving me anal.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “As in always up my ass.”

  “Oh,” he smiles.

  “Yeah...My family isn’t exactly supportive of anything. They still treat me like a child, yet honor my jarhead younger brother like a prince. So yeah, my life isn’t exactly perfect.”

  He places his hand atop of mine. They’re softer than any other man’s I’ve touched.

&
nbsp; “You will find happiness, Mary. Believe in it.”

  I nod my head and find a smile. The buzzer rings, and forces me to jump. Time’s up already, I cry inside. He stands to his feet.

  “Maybe I’ll see you again?” I say, almost desperate.

  “You can. Let’s have dinner.”

  He reaches into his jacket and pulls out one, thick, black card. Not a deck. But just one. I take the card and on the front, in white letters is his name Artimus Malkovo. I turn it on its back side and there is a black vine plant design and has his address. He lives in the richest part of New York.

  “There’s no phone number.”

  “Come anytime you’d like. I’ll see you coming before you see me.”

  Without another word, he leaves. Another man sits at the table. I tell him sorry, and Chels comes over.

  “You two looked very great together. What’s he like? What’d he say?”

  “He’s…quite a mystery. I think I just know that his name is Artimus—”

  “That exquisite.”

  “—he’s rich, and is from Paris, yet I told him my whole life story. He gave me this though?”

  “His address?”

  “Yeah. Told me to come sometime and have dinner.”

  “Apparently, he’s not wasting any. Wow. I think I’m jealous of you.”

  “That won’t ever be possible.”

  Chapter 4

  I snack on chocolates, sip on coffee, turn on my work computer and tune it to Pandora and dance around in my chair to the Christmas music. Chels pops her head above my cubicle and I try to refrain from laughing.

  “Well, someone woke up on the right side of the bed for once,” she says. “Christmas music? You hate Christmas music.”

  “I’ve learned to enjoy it today.” I pop another chocolate into my mouth.

  “So,” she says. “When do you plan on going over there?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t exactly decided.”

  “Why not tonight?”

  “Tonight? That’s too soon.”

  “He gave you his address after a two-minute conversation.”

  “Good point.”

  “So, tonight. Go over there and learn more about him and fuck his brains out.”

  I shoot her a glare.

  “I was joking about that last part. But, still. You need to move on. Artimus seems to not waste his time so there’s probably so much under that thick layer of handsome you should go find out about.”

  I nod my head. “Yeah, you’re right…. Well…. Okay, I’ll head over there. But I will probably regret it.”

  “I’m sure by the end of the night, you won’t.”

  ***

  KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  Momentarily, my mother opens the door.

  “Mary.”

  “Hey,” I say. “I didn’t get a chance to message you that I was going to stop by after work. Wanted to drop these off.”

  I hand her the envelope. Father and my brother come to the door.

  “What are these?” my mother asks.

  “Christmas cards.”

  “How’d you find the money to do that?” my brother asks, with a small smile on his face.

  “I work for a living instead of collecting government bitch checks.” I smile back at him. He frowns. “But don’t worry my little jarhead brother. There’s a card in there for you too.” I kiss my father on the cheek. “Hi, Dad.” I begin to walk away, but then my mother calls me back.

  “You can stay for dinner if you’d like?” she says.

  “No, no thank you. I have a date tonight.”

  “A date?”

  “Yes,” I call back opening my car door.

  “With who?” she calls back again. I pull out of the driveway without another word. I’ll never give them so much info about my personal life again. All they manage to do is share and gossip about it.

  As I drive through the streets of Manhattan, I enter Artimus’ address, and the destination tells me it will be roughly half an hour. I can only hope that tonight will be a great as the smile I had to force upon my face with seeing my family.

  After the drive, I find myself on high hills overlooking Manhattan. His driveway is long, but the width of his house is much longer and taller. It has white pillars, sculptures along the lawn, a huge grey fountain of some sort of mythical beast and a flower garden. I walk up the steps and stand before a vast, brown door that has gold handles. I look through one of the side windows and it doesn’t look like he’s home. Before I can knock, the front door is opening.

  “Welcome, Mary,” he says. “Welcome to my sanctuary.”

  Chapter 5

  Artimus shows me around his house, and there are more rooms than I can count. He has art and paintings on almost every wall, sculptures, huge chandeliers I’m afraid to stand under, and many of his walls see to the outside.

  “How did you collect all of this stuff?”

  “As you would collect anything; Plenty of patience and time on your hands.”

  “And you own this by yourself? No wife, or children, or…a maid, or something?”

  “Yes. I am alone.”

  “How long have you been alone?”

  He thinks to himself. “Feels like it’s been centuries…Come.”

  He takes me by then hand and leads me into a dining room. The table sits in the center of the room and it is as long as a lay-on-the-ground outside waterslide. There’s a variety of wines on a separate table in the corner, and as I feared, above our table is a chandelier.

  “Please sit,” he says, leading me to one end of the white-clothed table.

  He pulls out my chair and pushes it beneath me. He then makes his way to the other end of the table and grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses. As he returns with them, along with a chair for himself, I glance at my plate of steak, mixed vegetables, rice and a biscuit. He’s outdone himself for a first meal. He takes a seat before me, along the side of the table, perhaps to be closer, but doesn’t have a plate for himself.

  “You’re not hungry?” I ask.

  “I ate this morning.”

  “But it’s just past 7 p.m.”

  “I’m still full.”

  Quite a metabolism. Must be nice. I begin to eat away at my plate and he pours us a glass of wine.

  “A toast,” he says. I swallow the steak and hold up my glass and smile.

  “To what?”

  “A long, everlasting, fulfilled life.”

  “That’s…quite a heavy toast.”

  “Believe.”

  I nod my head and exhale.

  “To a long, everlasting, fulfilled life,” I say. We clink glasses together and begin to drink. I finish my cup, as he sips his. He smiles.

  “Whoa, need another?”

  “Yes,” I laugh as I fork at my plate. He pours another cup.

  “So, what did you do that earned you all of this?”

  “Many things. Trade, real-estate, teach, artistry, write—”

  “Wait, you write?”

  “Yes. I did for many years.”

  “I work for a communications and media company, Fisch, as a writer. What did you write?”

  “Usually, plays. But more faithfully, in my diary.”

  “Wow. So, what’s the most recent career you held.”

  “It was entrepreneurial.”

  “In what?”

  “I, um, sold alcohol during the prohibition. I know…illegal, but there was plenty of money and it didn’t involve hurting anybody.”

  “The prohibition? That was like…back in the 1920s, I’m confused.”

  He looks away for a bit then nods his head.

  “Uh, yes, I’m sorry. In France. The prohibition in France. Which was for a short time, recently.”

  I nod my head.

  “In France…Okay.”

  He finds a smile. I finish my plate and push it away and drink more wine.

  “You’re really not going to eat anything?”

  “I told you, I h
ave odd tastes.”

  “Actually, you said you weren’t hungry, so…What are these odd tastes you speak of?”

  He smirks and looks into his lap. Why am I flirting with him so much? Is it the wine kicking in? I hope not.

  “You.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, now waking from a quick internal doze.

  “I have a taste for you.”

  I blush and shake my head.

  “I’m sorry, Artimus. I’m not a one night stand kind of girl.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  His eyes flash into mine and for a moment, I feel hypnotized. That hazel glows so bright, and though my peripheral vision seems foggy, Artimus’ features are more clear than I remember. His face leans close to mine. I remain still. His fingers run up my arm, and sends a chill, and goosebumps, across my skin. I feel shy.

  When his lips are a lips-distance from mine, I work my way up his chest with my hands, pressing against his white button-up shirt. His chest is tight and wide. Massive and strong. His shoulders are broad, wide like an eagle’s wings. I run my hands up his neck and to his face and hold him there. I stare into his eyes, then runs my hands through his black strands of hair, as his hazel eyes leech into mine. When I grip his hair, he presses his lips against mine, and we fold them and let them dance together. My heart pounds against my chest. His kiss is passionate and warm, sweet like honey.

  “Wait,” I say, stopping. “This is crazy. I just met you.”

  “So.”

  I smile and nod my head. “Right. So.”

  We start kissing again, and he begins to stand to his feet, and as he does, I find myself being carried in his arms. He walks up plenty of stairs and through many rooms. His bedroom seems so far away. We get to a hallway, and at the other end are double-doors. Nothing else. Each step he takes closer, time seems to slow. The hallway seems longer. Am I moving too fast? Should I go home? I can hear Chels’s voice in my head right now, telling me to let him lead the way.

  He reaches for the handle and turns the doorknob slowly as I remain as powerless as a toddler in his arms. We enter the room and I shiver runs up my spine. He sets me down on my feet and I then leave him in the doorway and look around. There is a wide, queen-sized, black-covered bed. Its headboard is a work of black-stoned art. Something gothic. Three grey-stoned pillars stand tall on each side of the bed. A fireplace is against one wall and the other wall is completely made of glass.