The alien moment always happens in the micro. Something mundane: an off-handed comment, a joke, a contortion of face muscles. A little gesture that disturbs the equilibrium of acceptance between friends. Why would she say that? Is there a secret world I don't see in which my friend dwells?
It would be too much to ask them to unpack all their mental luggage. What if they stuck their hand into one of the zipped pockets behind the lining to produce a decomposed and smelly old memory? Don't tell me about your childhood.
The alien sitting at my kitchen bench pulls at her earlobe, expertly mimicking the gesture of my beloved friend, as if to mask her alienness.
I change the topic casually, "What's happening with Mr Lee?". I hoped the question was pumped with enough mundane-ness to mask the identification verification.
"Poor uncle. Milk-bars aren't what they used to be. Now he's stuck with a tonne of lollies and tazos... " She dutifully supplied the slow news-day gossip. Identification was verified by the detailed knowledge of a peripheral character. Beloved friend's prattle trailed off, and she pulled at her earlobe again to denote boredom. The alien has been exorcised by the reality of her uncle's milkbar.
But it still wasn't safe, and may never be again. That little sign broke the innocent bond of trust and commonality.
This was written in 90 minutes at The Faithful Writers' conference last weekend.
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