It is waiting for something that might not happen. It could be a she, though it is hard for me to tell, tourist as I am. Its blue chest rises up and down beneath a filmy gauze. The sign reads in several alien and earth languages: “Please do not touch the sleeper.” Supposedly, it has been sleeping a really long time, longer than any living being remembers. It never wakes, needs to eat or go to relieve itself. It is really lovely in a fish sort of way. It or she lies on what looks like the back of a giant white stingray for a bed. The pale flaps of the beast undulate as if it were in the sea.

I am the only visitor. People and aliens would much rather see the eater, who is larger than any known creature in the universe, stuff himself with the condemned, but I am not that sort. I abhor violence. The custodian is away, taking care of her tube, a funny purple veined one that grows out of her forehead like a floppy horn. I inch nearer. On the sleeper's face are scratches, tiny lacerations, red against the aquatic shimmer of her skin. Her eyelids flutter as if she is trying with all her might to open them. “What have they done to you?” I say.

I pull back the last curtain. There is no barrier between us now. I can smell the ocean. I move my face closer and her breath is warm and sweet. I kiss her and she begins to stir.

Lucy Simpson, Seattle

white tulip by Lucy Simpson