He saw the face peering through the Venetian blinds. Those fierce eyes startled him. But he didn't blame her for studying him so intently. One couldn't be too careful, especially now, during the alien scare. He walked up the creaky porch stairs, balancing the pizza box on his hand. At the door he pressed the button that sounded the chimes inside. He recalled what he'd heard about the aliens. Confused reports, each of them different, but all agreeing on the fiercely intent gaze and the face with no mouth. It was rumored they could cloud one's thoughts with their telepathic concentration, even make it seem as if they'd spoken. Take that woman at the window. He hadn't actually seen her mouth had he? But then he imagined he had and was calm again. He heard footsteps and the door swung open. "Put it on the table," he heard from the shadows behind the door. He entered, and did as he was told. As he turned to leave he saw the door was closed. She stood before it, staring into him with that fierce look. He felt compelled to sit down, to reach for a slice of pizza. He was very, very hungry and had to eat. All the while those eyes were upon him, watching every motion. He felt a deep sense of melancholy. Her feelings in him, complex feelings, slowly illuminated. They were oh so advanced, could talk with their thoughts, could breath nourishment through the pores of their skin, yet this evolution had cost them the simple oral pleasure of eating. He saw a tear roll down her face as she watched him enjoy the last bite of pizza. It crossed the smooth skin where her lips would be. "And now," her thought flowered in his mind, "talk to me."

Story #309