She hugged the sheets to her chest. A heavy silence hung between them.
"Are you afraid of me?" she asked.
"Maybe." He looked down, nervously picking bits of pilling off his sweater.
It was a question he was sure she knew the answer to. "You killed a lot of people."
"I was protecting myself. And the eggs. You know that." She could feel the cold pain of her failure wrap itself around her chest. "Anyway," she pushed the sheets aside and reached for her clothes, then stood and began dressing, "it was a long time ago."
He felt colour in his cheeks. He hadn't meant to bring it up. "Hey," he walked over to her. She was a good two feet taller than him. He reached up and touched her cheek. "Hey."
He couldn't be sure where her eyes were, so he looked deeply into her semi-transparent forehead. The soft light made her look sadder than he'd ever seen her. The blackness of her exoskeleton seemed liquid. So many times she's come so close to being washed away, he thought. He moved his thumb along her lipless jaw, careful not to graze her razor sharp teeth. Her breath slowed and softened.
"I guess Ripley was wrong about you," he said. "Maybe they all were."
She could smell the marrow of his bones. She emitted a series of light, throaty clicks that he'd come to understand as laughter. "Not really," she said. "I can be a bit of a bitch."
He had barely registered this when she silently and with lightning speed devoured him. When the feeding was complete, she dressed, washed up, and left the hotel. The doorman nodded courteously. She stepped to the curb and shrieked into the sky. A cab pulled up immediately, the driver knowing a good tip when he heard one.