The little martian keeps me company as I question the fabric of my reality.
The martian listens to me patiently, doesn’t warble my words, and lets me speak without the dusty sandpaper fear that comes along with letting go of the truth.
The little martian sits with me in the sun as I dry my hair, he walks with me after lunch and holds my hand when it gets too cold to go outside.
We curl up by the fireplace, books in hand, I cannot bring myself to read.
“Is it supposed to feel so hard?” I ask him, breaking the silence.
“ Is it supposed to feel like you're pushing uphill constantly? “
“nope. “
He pops the p and looks at me gravely.
“Stop romanticizing the fate of Sisyphus, that shit was torture. “
I purse my lips and look back at the flickering fireplace dancing in the drawing room.
The little martian throws in another log and passes me a glass of wine.
It's expensive, red and fruity.
I don’t like it very much, but it adds to the scene, so I take another sip.
The little martian pours a similar-looking glass of goop for himself and clinks it against mine, it smells like apple juice, he tosses a little umbrella into his cup and grins.
The little martian can be quite cute when he thinks no one is looking.
“Cheers” he sings, a little dimple popping sadly on his cheek
I look at him, in his silly purple hoodie and knitted socks. He looks so cosy and relaxed.
He swirls his little cup of apple juice around like a seasoned taster and looks me dead in the eye,
"Cut the crap. " he grounds out
"ha?"
"Take the plunge, you already know how to swim, you dont need a lifeboat. "
I nod.
He pours me another glass.
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