Circumstances

A koan: If two brain slug hosts have sex, is that masturbation?
—Slug Sutra, Chapter 1

When Mel arrived back at the apartment building, he saw Jordan, clothed, in the hallway between 501 and 502. The police tape was gone. The apartment manager was there, and the two made signs with their hands. Mel blinked, exhausted. He hadn't known that Jordan could sign. Had never thought about it. He felt, suddenly, like an idiot. Of course she had to have some way to communicate. Just because he was an idiot and they seemed to communicate entirely with thumb's up signs and oral sex—

Jordan turned to look at him. The manager, a short Asian woman with grey streaks in her black hair and round-rimmed glasses named Mrs. Chin, beckoned him over.

"Given the circumstances," Mrs. Chin began. "Miss Soong has decided to sublet your apartment. The police have closed the investigation as they contact Tony's next of kin. Miss Carmichael says you two will be moving Miss Soong's personal belongings to your apartment."

"Yes," Mel said. Not sure what else there was to say. The manager nodded, turned to the door, and swiped a master key card. It opened.

Jordan went first, as if she had been inside 502 a thousand times before. Maybe she had. Mel had no idea how often Jordan visited Soong. With great efficiency, Jordan opened the door to Soong's room and started packing. Mel stood in the doorway, and when Jordan came forward with an armload of sheets and folded clothes, he held out his arms and took them. The manager watched as he carried it across the hall and laid them on the couch, then went back for more.

It took three trips.

"Take the food," the manager said. "Anything perishable. If it goes bad, it'll be a mess to clean."

She said it with the world-weary practicality that made Mel imagine that this wasn't the first time one of her inhabitants had suddenly died or disappeared. So they opened the fridge and took milk, cheese, yogurt, eggs, various raw vegetables. Mrs. Chin watched. Then she pointed to the garlic that hung from the ceiling.

Mel glanced at Jordan. Muscles on her neck stiff.

"Sorry," he said. "I don't eat garlic."

Once the door was closed, Jordan immediately peeled off her shirt. He wondered whether clothing was actually uncomfortable to brain slugs. Or maybe it limited them in some way, to have so much of the host's skin covered. She busied herself with putting away Soong's belongings. Clothes in the drawer. Toothbrush into the bathroom, next to Jordan's own. Sheets and towels into the closet.

There wasn't much else.

Except the box.

It was shaped like a small briefcase, dull aluminum, with rivets and rounded corners. Jordan opened it, and Mel, standing behind her, saw the pale, smooth phallic curve nestled in a bed of white foam. If some ancient shamaness in Siberia had carved a double-ended tool for two women from a tusk of mammoth ivory, it might look like that. Clean, but worn smooth. The brain slug on the back of Jordan's neck extended its sensory tentacles, and its colors rippled once—a green band that moved through the darkness, the translucent edges pink—and then resolved to a semitranslucent green.

Jordan closed the box. She carried it into the room she and Soong now shared. The other host was naked, face down on the bed. Mel caught a glimpse of the slit between her legs and looked away. His stomach rumbled.

As he set the water to boil on the stove, Jordan came up behind him. She reached around his waist and, with both hands, unbuttoned his pants. As she slipped them down his hairy legs, Mel stepped out of them.

They settled on the couch, that unspoken gulf between them, but now Mel knew it wasn't because they couldn't communicate, but because he didn't know the language. That was something he could learn. Mel slurped his ramen as Jordan keyed up another episode of The Human Animal. He wasn't sure how many there were in the series. It was cozy, though, even sitting pantsless on the couch, next to a naked woman munching on raw carrot sticks. Like how things were before Antonio hurt Soong.

Mel wasn't aware of her at first. His eyes were on the screen. Hands full with the ramen and a spoon. Eating steadily. Body tired. He needed sleep, then it would be time for work again.

Soong's tongue touched the very tip. Mel nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked down and saw his new roommate on her hands and knees between his legs. Her lips closed over the tip, her chin on the edge of the couch. Her brain slug, a dark, almost inky black, didn't move. Jordan slid over into the middle cushion, and her hand found the base of Mel's prick.

This is my life now, Mel thought, as Jordan slowly stroked him, and blood slowly engorged the member in Soong's mouth. Jordan looked at the screen, still watching the program. Mel noticed that one of Soong's hands was clasped around her ankle. The two were communicating, coordinating.

Multitasking.

As the heat grew inside of him, the sense of anticipation, the tickle at the root of things that promised explosive release, Mel set the empty pot on the arm of the couch and leaned back to enjoy the sensation.

He had never had a family dinner. Yet somehow, he didn't think they were usually like this.