В итоге буду читать вот это. Чуток довела до ума, вроде ничотак.

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Brian didn't like football and shit. But since he'd promised Carter to wait for him after the photo club, he figured watching six-graders play could be a way to kill time, and maybe take that chance to think on the meaning of life, the universe and everything, which, after that night, he wasn't so sure was 42.

He walked up the bleachers, dropped his school bag on the top bench, and sat down. His fingertips brushed over the peeling crust of the old dark-green paint. Wind puffed in his face and tousled loose strands of hair sticking out of his messy ponytail. Brian zipped his sports jacket up to his chin.

He was the only spectator apart from coach Wilson, sitting in the front row. The six-graders weren't too keen on the game. They tossed the ball back and forth across the pitch rather quickly, but neither side managed to score.

"Pass! Pass!" a skinny redhead shouted to the guy with the ball, a chubby bloke, who was quite alright at keeping the ball, but didn't seem to know what he was supposed to do with it.

"Bradley! Quit hoardin' the ball, you slow-arse!"

Brian snickered. He wasn't better at the game, of course. Though at least, he knew how to do a pass to someone closer to the freakin' gate.

"I'm open!" the redhead yelled. "Gimme the bloody pass!"

Wind shivers crawled up Brian's spine, his vision unfocused. Rough bits of that night dashed through the mild concussion of his mind, his half-broken terribly sobering brain. It cracked open like an overripe peach, leaking memories.

That night Brian's whole existence got overwritten. What he knew about himself, about life, Earth, space. . . About reality altogether.

The wild cloud chase on a bike-like hovercraft, escaping the bad guys with their big guns shooting weird laser beams, the stealthy crawl in the ivy bush at Ms Walker's garden. The sweet breeze out of the kitchen window: chocolate, brandy, cinnamon, honey, and that smell too. Ginger-not-ginger. His smell. The orange plasma of his eyes. The sweet low sound of his voice, that sent earthquakes through Brian's body, head to toes.

He brushed the delicate patch of skin under his right jaw. The place where Daeh's lips had landed. Brian had felt it in his bones. The burning quiver of his heart. Fingertips, sparkling with fire. Poison chemicals, bubbling liquid, streaming across his dry cracking lips. It might have been a trip, but no, it was better than that.

"M-m-mnwrong-place," he moaned into Daeh's open mouth. "M-m-mine's next-door, 'kay?"

The alien laughed, his lavender lips, sparkling glitter in the laser-beam light. His arms, all over Brian. Hard to breathe, the moon freakin' up high and. . . shit! Shit! Gotta keep calm, the doctor had told him, gotta take lots of rest and drink water, and not overthink stuff.

"You might be feeling slightly dizzy as well," the doc said, "and there might be some brain fog. Now, that's all pretty normal. . ."

Yeah. Normal. No shit. Did he really almost not fuck an. . . alien? Or was it the bloody concussion and stuff? Brian felt dizzy, alright. But none of that shit was normal.

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