I find out it’s possible to hear someone’s—somealien’s—shock. “You shave your legs?” “If I’d known I was going to have to wear a skirt? Definitely.” Something brushes me; I have a second to register this feels like his shoulder before the big meaty thing moves into me and my hands land on his back because Breslin’s taken up the hem of my skirt, bared my leg, and hooked my ankle over his knee for an examination of my limb.
