Are U.F.O. Real?!

Bunny and Jezabel move through their kitchen with lazy ease, polishing counters and stacking dishes. Jezabel leans toward the window and straightens in surprise. “A spaceship,” she says. “Right next door.” Bunny snorts, but one glance across the fence kills the joke. They bolt for the front door, ready to race over and warn Alex, only to find her already standing on the porch, smiling like this is any other Sunday. She steps inside, uninvited, and starts talking about jam recipes as though there isn’t a silver disk shimmering outside. Alex dodges every question about the craft. Says it’s a hot tub. Then her tone turns personal. She wants to know how often the wives still touch each other, how deep their desire runs. Embarrassment twists into suspicion until Alex drops the mask. She isn’t joking. She’s an alien whose engine feeds on the spark between women, and the wives’ waning charge has exposed her. Bunny opens her mouth to argue, but the words jam. The interruptions, the half-hearted kisses, the long stretches of silence where something louder—chores, phones, fatigue—always steps between them. Jezabel’s cell lights up. Work. Urgent. She mouths sorry and slips out, leaving Bunny alone with the revelation. Bunny squares her shoulders. Fine. If Alex needs her heat, Bunny will give it—hot, wet, every drop. She slides her palm up Alex’s thigh, already wet with anticipation.