The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 18

Jupiter

Art stood in front of his armoire in navy boxer shorts. He and David were to meet Angie at Jodi's gallery in an hour, and he was searching for ways to back out. He thought about drinking David's stash of milk so he could stay home with stomach cramps and diarrhea. But David would still insist he go, and that he could "take a shite in any toilet," so he nixed that idea. He thought about putting a thermometer on a light bulb and saying he had a fever, but nobody had mercury thermometers anymore. He even thought about running out for milk and never coming back. But deep down he knew he did want to go, to meet Angie, to have a date.

He glanced out into the living room and watched David primping in the full-length mirror. She had purchased some real makeup earlier in the day and was drawing some sort of shape over her eyelid with red eyeliner. She wore a white silk kimono embroidered with pastel flowers, not much longer than a shirt, with white thigh-high satin boots. She had dyed her hair a streaky orange from boxed color while Art was at work. She sensed him looking at her and smiled. God, he loved that crazy gnashing toothed smile. "I can't believe you're taking longer to get ready than I am," she joked. "I've created a monster!"

"Well, this monster needs your help," said Art. "I can't believe these words are coming out of my mouth, but I have no idea what to wear."

David put the cap on her eyeliner and walked in to where Art stood. She had drawn the outline of a star over her eye, reminiscent of a dog named Spot. She flipped through the hangers and decisively pulled out two items. "Wear this," she said, handing the hangers to Art. "And your gray shoes. And an undershirt. You're sweating like a man."

"I am a man," Art protested.

David shrugged. "I never sweated like that. Disgusting."

"Maybe because you're from Mars," Art retorted. He watched for her reaction. Although his rational mind still had difficulty even beginning to think about 'aliens,' his open mind was spinning the possibility, and the only thing that made David make any sense.

She laughed casually. "That's it," she confessed. "It has nothing to do with my cleanliness. I must be from Mars."

Art rolled his eyes, pulling a white undershirt on over his head. "You Brits are impossible."

"I prefer incorrigible," David replied.

"My point exactly," laughed Art.

"And you Americans flap your gums too much. Quit your yammering and get dressed," she toyed.

Art saluted her with a "Yes ma'am," and proceeded to dress. David had given him a pair of slim black pinstriped trousers and a gray Oxford dress shirt. After he buttoned himself in, she promptly unbuttoned twice at his neck, popped his collar, unbuttoned his cuffs and turned them up once.

"I don't think I'm a popped collar guy," Art said insecurely.

"Sure you are," replied David. "It's sexy. Like you just took off your coat and tie and are ready for some action."

"I don't know," said Art. "It seems a little sexist."

"Not sexist, sexy," David corrected. "Trust me. Much sexier than those blasted khakis. Dreadful." She shuddered. "Now chop, chop. Time waits for no man."

"What about being fashionably late?" asked Art.

"I am too fashionable to be late," quipped David. "Besides, we don't want to keep Angie waiting. That's rude."

"Got it," answered Art, lacing up his shoes. "Let's go."

They met Mrs. Pritchard on their way out and her way in, her little dog by her heels. Art wanted so badly now to follow her to her apartment and chat away the night, but knew he would have to wait for another day. He also knew he wanted to make good by David. "Mrs. Pritchard, how are you?" he asked grandly.