Him
He doesn't know I watch him. He doesn't realize I even know who he is. He still thinks I don't remember; that I'm blank. I remember.
He's never seen me, only in pictures from before. He's been looking and asking questions. He sometimes even hits people for information. I guess that was part of his information extraction training; it's a little hot.
I remember now. I'm still not sure if I'm happy that I remember. If things were different, if I hadn't been so messed up and I hadn't signed on to be erased, I could talk to him right now. He's sitting in a diner booth poring over the slowly thickeneing file he keeps on me. If I hadn't been so stupid that file wouldn't exist and I could be sitting across from him talking about something unimportant, smiling or even laughing; happy.
I'm sitting at a small table outside a coffee shop. It's a little strange that whenever I go out he always seems to be near by; passing on the street or sitting across the way. Boyd is lounging in a van parked streetside and I'm waiting for the man I'm supposed to meet. He's my assignment today and he's late. I hate it when assignments are late. If you go to all the trouble of paying large sums of money for a blank slate you really shouldn't be tardy; it's rude.
Across the street, he shifts the papers back into a pile and closes the folder over them as a waitress lays a mug in front of him. He never seems to look out the window when I want him to. If he turned his head eighty degrees he would see me; his search would be complete.
He wants to find me and I want him to find me. He can't find me. I can't let him. It would only put him in danger. He's getting himself in enough trouble already, asking so many questions. In a strange way I've fallen for this obsessive FBI man from a distance. Can you fall for a man you've never met or talked to? Just from the way he holds himself, the way he cups his hands when he holds his coffee cup (you know he'd be good with those hands), his deep serious eyes, his conviction?
I want to get up, walk over there. Say hello casually and watch his reaction; surprise and utter disbelief rolling across his unreasonably attractive face. I wonder how he'd react if I kissed him? How would those lips feel on mine?
I shake my head slightly to try and dislodge thoughts that are racing toward the gutter. It doesn't work but luckily my date shows up and I'm distracted almost fully. I smile at the man who's slid into the chair across the table from me and greet him warmly like I've been programmed to, though I could choose not to now if I wanted. He touches my hand and I look at him like he's the only man I'll ever see but I'm thinking of him.
I don't even know his name. I've heard him being discussed but he's always referred to as that FBI agent, sometimes accompanied by some choice offensive language. It doesn't matter. Though I'd like to, I don't need to know his name; I know his face.
He gets up from his booth. I make a show of looking away from my date, as if embarrassed by his compliment. I do it so my eyes can follow him as he retreats down the street, file in hand. I want to follow. But I can't.
Not yet.
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