“Whoa there, cowboy,” says the lips.

“What the!? Who … what,” I say, trying to formulate a coherent sentence. How does one talk to a pair of lips on one's hand?

“Who … who are you?” I manage to squeak out.

“Me?” it says. “Oh, I don’t have a name, Jack. We don’t have names.” Its voice is low and male. It's accent sounds familiar but I can’t quite place it.

“Why do you sound like Samuel L. Jackson?”

“I am what you made me, Jack.”

I pull myself out of the tub with my left hand and sit on the edge. Not an easy maneuver, I might add. My jumpsuit is still around my ankles, I realize, but I’m too distracted to pull them back up.

“What do you mean?” I say, holding my hand as far away from my face as I can. My eyes are as wide as they can go.

“When you came in contact with my vessel you inadvertently—and quite rudely, I might add—absorbed my consciousness and determined my form.”

“I didn’t …” I shake my head. “What do you mean, I determined your form?”

“Your emotions have energy, Jack. As do your thoughts. Especially your thoughts. Energy that can be converted into a working blueprint for an entity like me. Tell me, Jack, what were you thinking about the moment you touched my vessel?”

“I …” I pause to recall. “Oh, right,” I say, almost snapping my fingers instinctively. That would have been awkward. “Well, right before, I was thinking about this nature documentary hosted by Samuel L. Jackson. I was imagining him showcasing the big green crystal that crushed my house on TV. And then, I … I thought about a movie.” I’m rambling nervously, I realize, so I pause to consider the implications of what I’m doing. I’m talking to an alien … in my hand. There’s a part of me that’s screaming “stop, think about this, don’t say or do anything stupid,” but my lips just keep on moving.

I talk a lot when I’m nervous.

“The, uh, movie Alien from 1979,” I say. “And if I remember right, a particular scene where the Xenomorph, that’s the alien, launches its tongue through this guy's, uh, skull. It was, uh, really, uh ...”

My scar opens up and a slimy, black snake-like appendage with a small bulbous head pushes its way through my scar and up into the air. My jaw slowly drops as it rises. I can feel it slithering through the core of my forearm. It doesn’t hurt, it just feels super weird. After it extends about two feet, the head bends to face me.

I recoil a bit.

There’s no eyes, only a small slit. A slit that opens to reveal those razor sharp teeth.

“Holy …” I say, then swallow. “Okay. That’s … just … wow.” I clear my throat. “So I … I have to ask. You, uh, don’t intend to eat or, uh, otherwise harm me or anything like that, do you?”

In the blink of an eye, the appendage snaps back inside my hand and burrows itself in my forearm as if it was spring loaded. The keloid scar tissue on my palm continues to speak.

“I’ve never inhabited a vessel like this before, Jack. Working with the biological is messy and unpredictable. But from what I can tell, our fates are intertwined until I can source the means to separate us.”

“So, just to be clear, that’s a no, right?”

There’s a loaded pause, followed by a “I mean, unless I get really hungry.”

I find myself slowly squinting, pointing at the lips with my other hand as I ask, “That … was that a … joke?”

A snort emanates from my palm. A sound I can only interpret as a gross alien laugh.

“Your mind, your perspective and way of thinking, is the only source of context I have for learning how to communicate with humans, Jack, what do you think?”

I let out a “huh,” that sounds half relieved and half unsure. I don’t joke around that much. Do I?

“I, uh … well, you know me. I’ve always been a fan of a well timed quip.”

“Ooh, there’s nothing better, I agree,” it says, suddenly excited. “Save for a well placed bit of sarcasm or irony. Those are treats. We don’t have language like you do, Jack, so it’s fascinating to me. It's a novelty, truly. You people take it for granted. You have no idea what you have. Our thoughts, you see, are simply known among our kind. There’s no hiding your intentions, no deception, no question of anyone’s loyalty. No games. If there’s conflict between us—and there’s always conflict, let me tell you—it’s all in the open, laid bare for all to consider. Much more efficient form of communication, faster for sure, but far less … oh what’s the word—nuanced! Yes, that's it. Our way of communicating is far less nuanced. That's what makes you so fascinating. Language. The layers of meaning, the hidden truths, the raw unspoken feelings. The meaning in what’s not said. Oh! And the art. What a superfluous and bizarre form of individual expression! I’ve never experienced such an odd thing. Never understood concepts like beauty or whimsicality until now. It’s like gaining another sensory input. Like a blind man seeing for the first time, or a deaf man hearing his child’s voice after being healed. You literally gave me personality. No wonder we had such difficulty communicating with you humans when we arrived. Oh, we knew of course you used vibrational wave patterns to communicate, we understood it intellectually the way you understand that ants use pheromones to send messages. Doesn’t mean you can squirt out a bunch of farts and have a complex discussion about rocket science though, now does it? Oh, the things I’ve learned roaming around in that squishy little thing you call a brain.”

Stolen story; please report.

“You’re, uh … you’re in my brain? Like, you can read my mind?”

“Oh yes,” it says. “I’ve penetrated nearly every facet of your vessel. But I can’t access your current thoughts, Jack. Only those you’ve stored for reclamation.”

I swallow. “That’s not … creepy at all.”

“Sarcasm!” He blurs out (I’m calling it a he now). “Oh, how delightful.”

“Huh …” is all I can say to that.

“Your mind, Jack, it’s … crude, mind you, but remarkable in its own way. Our kind has always been fascinated by you organic types, there’s plenty of you around the galaxy to be sure. But I’ve never explored one to this depth before. I’ve taken on personality, feelings, attitude, it’s so … different! Yes, we are vastly superior to you in many ways but also so limited in many others. I can understand that now in ways I never could before.”

His mention of “our kind” sparks a question in me. But how to phrase it?

“So, there’s more of you?” I say.

“Yes, Jack, from the way I said ‘our kind,’ I would have thought you could work that out.”

“Right. Okay. Sure,” I say to the slightly condescending alien. “So … the rest of you. Are you, uh, you know, mad we, you know, kind of blew up your ship? Sorry about that, by the way. That wasn’t me.”

“Of course I’m irked—oh, irked, that’s a great word—but that doesn’t mean I wish to destroy the whole human race now.” He makes a gulping sound like a drunk chuckle. “If a few dogs tear up your golf cart, would that make you want to exterminate all of canine-kind?”

“Uh, no,” I say, relieved. “Not sure how I feel being compared to a dog, but I see your point. What about the others on your ship? Are they okay?”

“There were no others on my vessel. I inhabited the entirety of it.”

“Oh.”

“The term ‘pure energy’ does not encompass the full dimensional scope of my true, natural form but it will suffice, given you are not fully cognitively capable of comprehending it. It’s not an insult, Jack, don’t get all touchy. It just a fact.”

“Sure,” I say, “got it,” noting the slightly condescending tone. “Okay, but those other vessels. The ones that didn’t get shot down?”

“They retreated, the cowards. We possess no weapons, so we have no recourse. We’ve never had the need for them. Despite what your Hollywood tells you, most interstellar beings are relatively peaceful.”

“But you mentioned … conflict. Sounds like you don’t always get along?”

“Why do you think we stayed in your atmosphere for so long? Internal politics, Jack. It’s the one thing that is universal whether you have language or not. It never comes to blows, but we argue ... a lot. Not like you argue though. There’s no passion in it. Very matter of fact, black and white. If only everyone just stuck to the plan, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“What, uh, was the plan? Harvest our organs and impregnate our women?” I cringe the moment the jest comes out of my mouth. I can’t help it sometimes.

“No, those things are on my to-do list though,” it says. And it hits me: I have an extraterrestrial entity lodged inside of me that considers sarcasm and humor a strange intriguing novelty.

The days just keep getting weirder and weirder.

I’m about to respond with “good one,” when it cuts me off.

“How do I say this?” it says. “Why don’t you finish up while I think of how to phrase this next part carefully. I don’t want to alarm your sensitive sensibilities all at once just yet.”

“Yeah, uh, okay. Right,” I say, standing up and returning to the toilet.

I count ten paper squares, rip and fold. “So, uh, if you don’t have a name what do I call you?”

“Whatever you want, I suppose,” says the lips. “I don’t really care.”

“How about … Xeno? Like, because the alien in the movie was called a xenomorph and you—

“Really? You want to name me after a nasty, violent science fiction antagonist? Feels a bit contrived, Jack. I should be insulted. Why not after a great painter like Monet or Picasso? Or a great orator like Abraha—Left hand, Jack! For all that is holy, use your left hand!”

“Sorry,” I say, nearly jumping off the seat. I switch hands. “Old habit.”

There’s a sound like a gurgly sigh, then. “Alright. Xeno it is,” he says. “I suppose there’s a kind of ring to it.”