Грегори Бенфорд - Not One of Us - Stories of Aliens on Earth

Donna forced herself to put off bringing up a possible separation until at least his black eyes faded; tried to focus on the positive within their relationship. Jared had a good job, as did she. They lived in a nice house a reasonable commute away from the airport and the dental office where she worked, and had nice friends whom they saw regularly.

Turning these facts and others into a sort of litany, Donna began to doubt herself. Her life was good, so why did she feel so on edge all the time? Her feelings of dissatisfaction made no sense. Why did she feel relief instead of regret when Jared called to say he’d be working late? She shouldn’t feel that flash of annoyance when she heard his key in the lock; shouldn’t find it so irritating when she asked how his day was and he said, literally every afternoon or evening, “Good. Busy.” Shouldn’t resent the way he never asked about her day, or his perpetually preoccupied, predictable “Oh?” when she prompted him with an “I had a long day” or similar. That and a million other things ought not to make her nerves sing with tension and her heart flutter with frustration and resentment.

But they did.

Jared was exactly the same after he recovered. That’s what confirmed for Donna that the oddness surrounding his accident was simply DIA attempting to avoid going to court. Jared worked the same amount, said the same damn things, ate with the same hand. Nothing was different about him. Sadly.

At least so she thought…

Just like every other part of their marriage, sex had become a routine. To be fair, that monotony was pleasant enough, not like his responses to her attempts at conversation. Always shy about such matters, Jared would turn off his light and pretend to sleep, waiting for her to tire of reading. Once she turned off her lamp, he would grope for her under the covers in the darkness of their bedroom, first finding a breast, then drifting down to her sex, which he would caress until she was wet enough to accommodate him. Usually she came, either while he was inside her, or after, squeezing her thighs together after he rolled off.

About a week after the accident, when the purple bruises around his eyes had faded to mustard yellow and a soft, pea-soup green, Jared reached for her. She was ready. As far as she was concerned, Jared’s ability to sexually satisfy her, however inadvertently, was the only thing he had going for him. Responding more eagerly than usual to his touch, she was pleased when, instead of anxiously stroking her over her panties, he pulled them aside and slid a finger gently but deeply inside her—and gasped in surprise when he inserted a second.

All too soon he withdrew them both, to snap on his bedside light. She blinked, and when her eyes adjusted she saw he was sucking his fingers as he gazed at her exposed body. She shuddered, half-alarmed, half-aroused, and covered her breasts with her hands, unaccountably shy. He pulled them away almost roughly.

“I want to see,” he said.

His voice was the same, but something was different. His eyes. They glinted queerly in the light, like Skimbleshanks’s did when he was hiding under the bed. Were they a slightly different color now? Or was it just the low wattage of the bedside lamp and the sickly bruises?

She didn’t think long on it. How could she, while he was peeling down her undies and pushing her knees apart to inspect her sex? She was unable to interpret his expression—all she could come up with was wonder , but that wasn’t possible, not after ten years. And yet, how else could she explain the way his eyes widened and breath quickened as he spread her open before tasting her, which he’d never previously been particularly inclined to do. His attentions inspired her to respond with equal enthusiasm and soon she was suckling his hard cock. His delight inspired her, and she actually whined a little when he took it away from her—but her complaints turned to moans when he plunged it inside her and proceeded apace with more than his usual vigor.

He came before her, with an unexpected yelp much different from his usual relieved exhalation of breath; more aroused than she could ever remember being, she came as he slowed his thrusting. He said nothing after, just smiled and pushed her sweaty bangs away from her forehead before turning off the light. She was left in darkness, confused but far too happy to worry much about it as she drifted off.

The next morning she felt like a housewife in an old movie when she caught herself humming as she toasted her English muffin. Amazing, the power of excellent sex… she was actually in a good mood. Sliding into the chair beside him instead of across from him, she grinned at him.

“Have a nice time last night?”

“Hm?” He looked up from the paper. His awful bruised eyes no longer shone with that same intense, interested light.

“Last night,” she said, faltering.

“Oh,” he said vaguely. “Yes.”

Donna no longer had any appetite for her cooling English muffin, margarine coagulating in all the nooks and crannies. Feeling disappointed—even a bit betrayed—she said nothing as he folded the paper, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and left for work without putting his cereal bowl in the sink, as usual.

Things went back to normal, and Donna cooled down enough that when Jared next feigned sleep she didn’t keep reading until he really fell asleep, as she sometimes did when feeling particularly resentful. Indeed, she put her book down early, as she was curious to see if she’d be treated to another display of genuine interest in her needs and her body. Hell, if the shift proved permanent, she might be able to deal with their marriage. For a little while longer, at least.

He reached for her in the darkness, to her mild disappointment. As tired as she had become of her husband’s face, she had enjoyed watching him grimace and wince during their lovemaking last time. His lip had curled and his eyes had closed when he came; it had almost looked like it pained him, which had been very hot to watch. So, while she usually kept quiet during sex, that night she asked, “Want me to turn the light on?” as he fiddled with her nipple.

“What?” Jared’s surprise was genuine.

“The light,” she said. “Like last time.”

He paused, then reached over and snapped it on. “ Definitely ,” he said, as his eyes gleamed.

While she was tempted to pay more attention to the fact that he was already hard, she placed a hand on his chest.

“What’s going on?” She said it calmly.

Jared froze. She waited.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Something’s going on, and I want to know what it is. And I want to know badly enough that I’m putting off… things … which, let me tell you, is difficult after last time.”

Jared laughed. “You did seem to like it. I did, too.”

“Oh, now you want to talk about it?”

“I wanted to talk about it before, but…” He looked worried for a moment. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He shrugged. “Because I’m not your husband.”

This shocked her less than she thought it should. Then again, she was tired of her husband. Whoever he was now, he had the advantage of not being Jared.

“All right,” she said. “Who are you, then?”

“That’s hard to explain…”

“Try.”

Jared—well, Not -Jared—nodded. “I thought it was strange, when I found out, that you don’t know. But your husband, he isn’t an…” Not-Jared squinted, as if thinking hard, “ administrator . I mean, he is , but not for the airport. For what’s under the airport.”