Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…
It might have been the liquor. Moon people don’t drink. After three glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, Kenneth Kern became, shall we say, quite frisky.
Marry me, he said.
“Lt. Kern…”
“Kenneth.”
“Kenneth, we just met. Isn’t this a little premature?” Sylvia Flowers narrowed her eyes. Alcohol didn’t have the same effect on her. Earthlings drink. A lot.
The two sat in Le Bar, in Manhattan. Wait staff, other diners pretended not to notice. In New York you leave celebrities alone. Poised, dark, tall and gorgeous, Sylvia met Kenneth Kern’s incisive gaze with her own. She outweighed him by thirty pounds. He was a slight, dark-browed, rather sallow man, yet appeared bigger, better-looking. Certain women can do that to you.
“Have you thought of the advantages?” he asked.
Marrying an alien invader? No, she hadn’t.
“First of all, you’ll be rich.”
“You just gave me all your money.”
It was true. Earlier, Lt. Kern extorted a billion dollars from her boss, the redoubtable Braxton Raab. Then, with only the slightest encouragement, handed it back. Kern could be forgiven. The combination of wine and beauty has sunk many a man.
He took up her long hand, the nails a deep, shining blue, with slender orange tips. “Where we’re going, we won’t need money.”
“How do you get what you want?”
“You take it.”
This was a little more familiar. Sylvia worked with the rich. “How about clothes?”
“It’s all free,” Kenneth explained, outlining the benefits of Moon society. You go to a department store and bring home anything you wish. Of course, every outfit is essentially identical, silver jumpsuits, silver track suits, silver pullovers. The shoes are high-quality running shoes, silver, weighted so you don’t bounce all over. Shuttles, also free, whisk you here and there, through tubes. The whole thing looks like Disney World, well-crafted, spotless, the windows and streets shining, with smiling, happy people.
Sylvia frowned. She was a city girl. She liked grit. The subway. The hustle and bustle. “How’s the food?”
“The best Brussels sprouts you’ve ever seen.” He noted her face. “We’re vegetarians, Sylvia. Meat is bad for you.”
“Well,” she said, raising her glass. She wanted to lighten the mood. “I’ll bet you have some magnificent vineyards.”
“Goodness no. There’s no drinking on the Moon.”
Sylvia, without Kern’s protection, knew what awaited. She would be deported to Mars, along with everyone else. Still, Earthlings are a resourceful bunch. In no time they would brew their own hootch, grow their own coffee, raise their own chickens…
She’d take her chances, here on Earth. Exchanging cell numbers, they downed their glasses, and parted friends.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com