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The alien gets drunk on Diet Coke. Four fingers of whiskey and not a wobble; now she’s sprawled on Maria’s couch, boneless—complaining about the humidity, like every other tourist. She’s got a purple flush, and sweat’s dewing along her collarbone. The moisture’s bitter on Maria’s tongue.

(Maria stuck to whiskey.)

“You gonna fuck me like you fucked her?” the alien asks—casual, indifferent.

Maria lifts the hem of the alien’s borrowed t-shirt. Maria's fingers brush skin the color of sky, hot to the touch. Smoldering. “Are you?”

The alien’s laugh is bitter like her sweat. She kisses with teeth.