18 years. I have been stuck on Earth for 18 years. Watching the same yellow sun rise and fall along the same blue sky. Choking on air so unrefined and tasteless, I'd rather breathe in sewage. Participating in small talk so mind-numbingly simple, I'm surprised humans still have working brains behind their mouths.

"Hey, Babe?" Sally calls from the door. I hadn't heard her keys sliding into the door lock, too engrossed in glaring at the potted plants by the window in case they got any funny ideas. Nothing yet.

"Babe." She's standing right behind me when I turn. "I was calling you," she said, hair still dripping wet from the rain outside. She's making a mess on the carpet.

"I heard you." I turn back to the window. I think the left-most

plant—a batch of chamomille she insists on growing—just twitched. "What do you want?"

Sally huffs, dropping her wet bag on the floor and kicking off her heels. She walks over to the kitchen, limping slightly, before remerging with an empty mug & a teabag. I hear the kettle start its high-pitched whine behind her. She stares at me, long red raincoat glistening with rain, black hair that used to curl untamed on her head now hanging limply around her face. The water comes to a boil.

She turns, turning off the stove and filling her mug. The chamomile twitches again. "I'm going out tonight," she says, "again." Then she storms off upstairs.

A pause. The chamomile twitches, like a speaker turning on. 'HAVE YOU STARTED OPERATION ZEBRA YET?'

Dammit.