Page 17 of Smart@ss Cyborg

She doesn’t react to my name or my possible show name except for the briefest hesitation in closing the door.

When I exit the shower, dressed in fresh jeans, my chaps, and my spare shirt and in clean socks but not wearing my boots, I find her scrubbing down the counters in the kitchen.

The floor, where her mate died, looks and smells as if it too has been washed.

Not having anything else to do, I go back into the siphon room, retrieve the rag I scrubbed with, rinse it out, and take it to her bucket of soapy water on the kitchen floor, and dunk it.

I crouch beside her and begin washing spots off the cupboard next to hers that my nose identifies as blood spatter.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice thick.

I glance over at her. “Cleaning?”

She looks me up and down. “This is a ‘menial task.’ You graciously outlined those as my jobs.”

I feel my brows rise briefly before squinching together in thought. “Do you wish not to share tasks?”

“I won’t stop you if you want to help. Especially…” She dries off one of her hands on her stained apron and presses it to her back, her already pained-looking face twisting with more pain. “Not tonight.”

Technically, she did just stop me, but I don’t point this out. I go back to scrubbing.

“Um,” she starts, and I glance over at her askance. Her eyes are very red. I wonder how much water and salt she needs to consume to replenish after wasting it in tear production. “Why are you wearing your day clothes?”

I look down at myself, then back to her. “What dress is usually utilized in these parts? The vids I watched depicted cowboys sleeping right on their horses, never changing clothes at all.”

She blinks at me several times before she turns only her chin to the side, widening her eyes even as she peers at me. It’s an expression I’ve never seen before and I don’t know what it means. “Well, if the vids depicted that, itmustbe true.”

I shrug. “That was my assumption.” I go back to scrubbing.

So does she. “I was being sarcastic. You can’t believe everything you see in the movies. I mean, sure, there are guys who probably ride on the range and don’t get to change outfits very often, but in real life, most of the men ‘in these parts’ wear boxers to bed. Pajama pants, that sort of thing.”

I cut my eyes to her. “Should I?”

Curiosity plays inside her brain and on her face. “What did you wear when you were living in the ocean?”

“A tail,” I tell her.

She glances at my lower half. “You really are one of those merman cyborgs, aren’t you?”

“You already asked me to identify myself earlier, but to double the confirmation, yes, I am.”

There are dark circles under her reddened eyes, and her hair corkscrews around her damp face. I look at the rest of her and find she’s grasping at her back again. “Why do you press on your back like that?” I find myself asking.

She twitches like she might pull her hand away, but then she makes a conscious-seeming effort to remain in the pose she was before I pointed it out. “My back hurts.”

“Why?”

She darts a look at me. “Because I’m pregnant.” Her eyes narrow. “How much do you know about humans? Wait,howdo you know about humans?”

“Traxian vids are very popular entertainment where I’m from,” I explain. “I’ve gained extensive knowledge of your culture through my vid education.”

She huffs a sound that is akin to laughter, yet it sounds like it holds little humor. It even seems to contain maybe some scorn. “If old Western movies were your education, it’s starting to explain some things.”

“Like what?” I ask.

She stiffens a little, and shakes her head. “Nothing. Never mind.”

I dip my rag back into her soap bucket, and examine the cupboards I’ve done, and the one she seems to be polishing. “They’re clean,” I murmur, announcing something she must be able to see easily enough for herself. Yet my next statement makes her freeze. “Now is it time for us to retire for the night?”

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