“Whaddaya mean, I’m ‘not human,’?” said Ruth. “I’m as human as the next person!” “Clearly not,” said the postal box-sized mass of lime-green slug-stuff, through a speaker embedded in its surface near the top. The voice was mechanical.

“No,” said its partner, twin to the first except for being more of a grass green. “We have observed your transmissions. You are not human.”

“You are not tall enough,” said Lime.

“You have too many freckles,” said Grass.

“Your hair is neither light blond nor rich brown,” said Lime.

“It is also not a flirty red,” said Grass.

“We particularly like flirty red,” said Lime.

Ruth narrowed her eyes. “Just because I’m not the ideal, movie-star woman doesn’t mean I’m not human.”

The things quivered, and Lime said, “We came to meet humans.”

“One man, with dark hair, gruff exterior, emotional insides, and skill at violence,” said Grass.

“And one woman, with small chin, large eyes, a complicated relationship to the man, and bazoongas out to here,” said Lime.

“You’re disgusting,” said Ruth, and she got back in her car.

“Wait,” said Lime, turning up the volume. “Who will protect us from the distrusting and prejudiced public?”