“I want to show you something,” Nala said as soon as I was through the door. With predictable excitement, I followed her into the bedroom and licked my lips as she undid the zipper on her rubberized safety suit. I started to get confused when she stopped halfway down her back. I blinked, trying to re-direct some blood to my brain.
“What are you showing me?” She gently tugged the back of the suit open, the way Superman always pulls his shirt open to reveal that big “S.” I still didn’t see anything. I told her as much.
“Look closer,” she said. I paused for a moment, and walked stiffly up to her, suddenly aware of the absence of something. I brought my face as close as I dared to her back, and for a second, I still didn’t see anything. Then, I realized what was missing. She didn’t smell like anything. Usually, Nala and all the rest of her species smelled like sweet, semirotten fruit from a distance, and like acrid ammonia closer up, although it’s not considered wise to get that close too often. But Nala didn’t smell like anything, even from a handbreadth away. Then, I finally saw what she was pointing out: a long, inflamed scar running from the base of her neck to just below her shoulder blades. The angry orange of the scar slashed down the brilliant yellow of her back, bisecting one of her iridescent ring markings, the one that I always thought looked a little like Antarctica. It took me a few more moments to process what I was seeing.
“You didn’t!” I gasped, standing up and stepping back a few paces. She zipped her suit back up and turned to smile at me. Those fangs that had once terrified me so much were harmless now, just interesting dental decorations. And I could touch that brilliant, flamboyant skin without getting sick. I could touch her. It’s impossible to understand how truly important touching your partner is, until you find you can’t do it without poisoning yourself. “So I guess the chess tournament was just a cover?” Her smile widened. I wanted to smile, too. I wanted to laugh giddily. I didn’t.
“I thought it’d be a nice surprise. Happy birthday.” It’s not every woman, human or otherwise, who’ll have major surgery as her boyfriend’s birthday present. It was still engraved on my brain: that scar where her venom gland used to be, and the total absence of odor. No more venom meant no more monthly trips to the doctor to check for liver failure or kidney failure or any of the dozen other symptoms of toxicity. No more constant paranoia. No more safety suit!
“Jesus!” was all I could say. Nala got up and crossed the room to the closet I’d set aside for her, and that’s she’d failed to clutter up like my previous girlfriends. She pulled the door open, and there it was, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the drab pastels of her safety suits: a real dress. “Jesus!” I said again. Then, I watched silently. Nala stripped down and squirmed into the dress. It was a flower-print thing, a sort of feminine counterpart to the Hawaiian shirt, but a hell of a lot sexier. Now that she wasn’t wrapped in a thick layer of neoprene, I could appreciate her curves, the pretty yellow skin, the modern-art ring-markings on the tops of her breats (there’s one in there somewhere that looks just like the letter Q).
“You got your gland excised for me?” I stammered. She smiled at me and walked over. Finally, I wasn’t separated from her by the suit. Finally, I could feel her warmth as she took me in her arms. We were about to have our very first anxiety-free kiss. Her lips stopped short. She fixed me in a meaningful gaze, and grinned. “Just for you.”
“It’s an awesome gesture. You’re the most generous thing that ever was.”
“Well, perhaps not,” she said, “My birthday’s coming up, and I have an idea for a present.”
“What?” She stroked the top of my arm and yanked out one of the hairs.
Commonly-known fact: Nala’s species is toxic to humans. Uncommonly-known fact: they’re allergic to us. As I lay naked on the bed with Nala applying hot wax to every square millimeter of my dander-causing hair, I began to wonder if it was worth it.
