ALIEN EXPRESSIONS (PART ONE) Edelstein emailed the alien almost - TopicsExpress

ALIEN EXPRESSIONS (PART ONE) Edelstein emailed the alien almost completely by chance. Weeks later, he couldn’t say for certain that there wasn’t an element of interstellar providence at play, but any celestial machinations were above his pay grade. He had just pushed the wrong button; coincidence or design took over from there. Or it could have been just the taco. He’d been trying to type and eat at the same time, and choosing a taco for that task was always at a best a slight risk. Awkwardly folding it with his left hand, trying to keep the beef and lettuce and grated cheese and onions from leaking out of either side, he shoved it into his mouth while typing his email, one fingered, with his right hand. (The things he did for his stomach, the ungrateful organ.) Being a lefty, he figured the taco would require more of his natural dexterity than simply tapping on some keys, so he concentrated on making sure his really-late-night snack didn’t drop various ingredients all over his keyboard. And, since he’d heated it in the microwave, not thirty seconds before, it was still sort of hot, heading fast to luke-warm. Had to get that baby in quick, bro. He cupped the two sides, gnawed his way to the middle, typed out a quick email to Wendell, his colleague, and saved the day for himself and his treat, just like Superman -- none of the good, meaty stuff dropped on the keyboard; the message had been sent; all was at long last good and right with the world. Only fourteen minutes later, he was already asleep, drool leisurely dripping from his lips as he dreamt about his Grade Three teacher, Miss Barnes ---the black frame of her specs, her piled-on red lipstick, so thick and inviting. The next morning, checking his email, he found a short, puzzled reply to the message he’d sent the night (actually the early-morning) before. It had been so routine, perfunctory and blah, that he’d even forgotten he’d sent it all. (In fact, in his half-awake state, craving his coffee, his mind was still imagining lovely Miss Barnes, how in high heels she loomed. Last nights routine email round-up, and even his success with the taco, was half-forgotten, half ignored.) Sort-of looking at the screen, he scratched his belly-button, wondering if the itch in the centre was something crawling and alive. Then he read over the latest reply, and read it again. He forgot all about the (possible) critter in his navel when he read it for a third time, finally grasping what it said, what it might mean to the cosmos, or at least just his life. (For Edelstein, there was no separation.)