By the third week we were used to him. We say “him” because it sounds better than “it,” though that’s probably more accurate. His tall, lithe body had stretched proportions that would turn heads and a green color that would turn stomachs.
After my wife’s screams died down that first day we ventured back into the kitchen. Slowly. As I rounded the corner his slender neck twisted, and enormous black eyes blinked at me lazily. I had the unnerving feeling that I wasn’t being seen so much as sensed, but for some reason the blinking calmed my nerves; it seemed the most normal thing about him.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Where do you come from?”
“How did you get into our kitchen?”
“This is getting us nowhere,” my wife hissed, frustrated. “Call the police.”
Ignoring her, I pressed on. “Are you lost? Alone? Hungry?”
Pause. Pause. Blink, blink.
“Did you see that?” I whispered. “What do you think it means?”
“It means there’s a monster in our kitchen, and I’m calling the police!”
“Now hang on,” I said. “Let’s see if he is hungry.”
Over my wife’s protests I threw some waffles into the toaster, and our guest watched in rapture as the coils heated. When it finished, the toaster’s pop was met with a slow blink. I added some syrup and laid the plate in front of him on the table with a knife and fork.
His neck bowed, bringing his head to hover a couple of feet above the offering. After a few slow, deliberate blinks he straightened, the waffles gone.
“How on Earth did he…?” I trailed off. His neck twisted again, pointing those eyes at me. We regarded each other in silence. He had a mouth, but somehow it was the eyes that seemed to smile.
We eventually maneuvered him into a chair with his long limbs sprawling in every direction. Now after three weeks we’re used to him. He sits in that chair day in and day out staring at nothing until mealtime. We give him waffles and he devours them in the same curious way, then resumes his staring. In fact the only things we’ve ever seen him do are stare and eat. And blink.
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