Man, the floor is cold. And a big bump on my head hurts. After a gentle shake of that aching head, my eyes open. Yep, I'm lying on the kitchen floor. The obvious question is "why?" One strange fact is evident—I'm holding a knife. It's a long, rounded end bread knife which couldn't poke through the skin of an overripe tomato. Yet there is a thick, red and green smear on the blade and I wonder if it is Christmastime. The colored smear sparkles under the incandescent lighting. Gazing at the glittery red and green substance, my head shakes again. It's April, not December. My brow furrows in confusion.

Noticing the back door isn't quite closed, I become alarmed. Memories are returning. My neighbor came over to borrow something. Struggling to my feet, my elbow nearly crushes an egg carton curiously sitting on the island countertop. My eyes try to relay the scene to my brain. Feet, actually shoes are barely visible from behind the island. Working my way around, still holding the bread knife, the figure on the floor is slowly revealed.

Oh, crap! I've killed my neighbor! Well, he looks dead—he's completely motionless. Brian, who lives next door, is a postman and often drops by for a glass of tea or to borrow something. He's a nice guy, but a bit eccentric. That's probably why he's single. But this isn't my neighbor. The clothes are his, but the hands and face definitely are not.

My whole body is shaking and I feel woozy. There is a smear of the sparkly red and green stuff on the collar of the postman shirt. But the face above that collar almost causes me to faint…again. It has three eyes! All are closed, thankfully, but the visage is completely alien.

Double crap! I've killed an alien! I stabbed ET with a blunt knife! Great, the government will arrest me. Oh boy, will the UFO people ever be upset! I'll be on the news. They'll crucify me. Slumping against the island in despair, I notice the alien has a weapon or some such device in what appears to be his hand. But there's no danger—he's still dead.

With a sigh, I gently lay the knife on the alien's chest near the wound and whisper an apology to him/her/it. Suddenly, I hear a whoosh, the three eyes open simultaneously, fluttering in sync, and the alien awakes. It rises to a sitting position and the knife falls to the floor, perfectly clean and shiny. Taking a giant step backward, I am terrified of the thing in my kitchen and am shocked when it speaks. Well, more accurately it squeaks. But, amazingly, my ears translate the squeaks into words my brain can comprehend.

"Ouch! That hurt! Hey, I come in peace, isn't that the line? Lady, I've got a problem. You know those UFO sightings reported lately around here?" I nod. "Well, I got careless and fell out of the spaceship. Found myself on the roof next door."

Now, believe me, this sounds unbelievable. Plus, I'm not sure which eye to make contact with—so I study the floor. The alien steps awkwardly forward. I am poised to run out the back door when it speaks—pardon me, squeaks—again.

"Lady, wait! I was desperate. So I shifted my appearance to appear like a picture in that other dwelling and put on some appropriate attire so I wouldn't scare you. I need something organic and pure to activate this transmitter. There wasn't anything next door, so I came here to borrow an egg. Then you stabbed me."

"Sorry about that. But, the knife isn't pointed! Man, I thought you were dead!"

"Well, I'm pretty tender. Good thing you returned my fluids so I could revive. I'm sorry the shape shifting thing didn't work and very sorry I scared you. Can I have that egg, now?"

I slide the Styrofoam carton toward my visitor and quickly step back. He picks up an egg and drops it into the electronic device. I'm not positive, but it appears he's smiling.

Suddenly, he is gone. Dang it, I didn't get a picture of him. Looking down, the postman uniform and shoes lie discarded in a pile. Nobody will believe this, all the evidence is gone.

The rumble of a motorcycle in the driveway announces my husband is home from work. Oh, triple crap! How am I going to explain why Brian's clothes are in my kitchen floor?