10 ♥

He sat on that rusty bar stool, his hairy legs dangling, his antennae shifting. I walked up to him, sat on the next stool, and ordered my usual. The frothy, filmy milk cooled my throat, and I wiped my claws across my mandibles. It's tough, not having sweat glands. I picked up the leaf pitcher again, brought it to my face. He just watched me. Studied me. Like I was some kind of microbe. I hate scientists, even when they're half-stoned.