Title: Black Coffee In Bed
Author: Alicia K
Feedback: Oh yeah! Spartcus1@msn.com
Rating: R, for sexual situations
Spoilers: None.
Classification: Scully/Other
Summary: Musings of a disappointed man.
Archive: Spooky site, please. Anywhere else, please
ask.
Disclaimer: No infringement intended. Please and
thank you.
The title comes from the Squeeze song by the same
name. Snazzy tune!
Thank you to my ever-helpful beta team for their help
and honesty: Jamie, Joanna, Mish, and Caz. And
thanks for letting me argue with you! g
Story can also be found at my website:
http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/enter.html
XXX
"Another one?" Greg asked me, taking my empty
bottle away.
I shook my head. "Coffee." I lit a fresh cigarette and
flipped open my notebook, preparing to write
something, anything, to put down on paper the events
of the previous night.
Greg returned with a chipped mug and a pot of
coffee. "Black?"
"Yeah," I sighed, staring down at the smudged, tan
ring on the white paper. The wrinkled circle made
me think of that old song by Squeeze, the one about
lips full of passion.
I had a visual memory of her sitting next to me on my
bed, mug of coffee precariously balanced on her
thigh as she leaned in to kiss me. I shook my head,
grimacing.
"So what happened with that knockout you left here
with last night?" Greg asked me as he walked to the
other end of the empty bar.
"Took her home," I answered without any glimmer of
suggestion.
"And?"
"Won't be seeing her again."
Greg groaned in sympathy. "Damn. That's a shame.
She was somethin' else, man."
Yeah, she sure was.
XXX
She was Dana; she of the flame-red hair, flawless
skin, and lips to slay for. I was sitting at the corner
table, nursing a pint of Guinness and smoking, my
notebook open before me as I tried to start my next,
unmarketable short story.
She walked in with purpose, apparently not noticing
(or ignoring) the five heads that turned her way, mine
included. She was hard to miss, with such a perfect
little body and that hair, pulled back in a black clip.
Her black turtleneck was snug, as were her faded
jeans.
I found myself jotting down these things, filling half
a page with descriptive narrative before I looked up
again. She was at the bar with a glass in front of her.
Her eyes remained fixed on the drink, as if she were
trying to communicate telepathically with it. She
held something small in her right hand. I couldn't
tell what it was, but the dim light in the bar glinted
off of its surface as she toyed with it.
Behind the bar, Greg was eyeing her with interest,
and something in me reared up. I didn't want anyone
trying to zero in on her. I wanted her to remain just
the way she was at that moment: quiet, still, and
seemingly trying to muster the courage to down her
drink.
Recovering alcoholic falling off the wagon? I
wondered as she raised one pale hand to slowly turn
the glass around and around, not picking it up off the
bar. Or just an abysmally shitty day?
I decided I really wanted to know.
Now, I wasn't the kind of guy who picked up women
in bars, even bars that I regularly frequent. Even if I
hadn't been recently divorced and in the process of
moving to Chicago, I wouldn't be out looking for a
quick lay.
But this woman, I liked. I hadn't even gotten a good
look at her eyes, to see if they were full of mischief,
or sorrow, or maybe even fury. I just liked the way
she carried herself, the way she strode purposefully
into the bar, only to hesitate with drink in hand. I
liked the way she looked, too, but that was almost
incidental.
Before I could convince myself that this was a Bad
Idea, I gathered my notebook, pen, and drink and
headed over to the bar. It was still early, and there
were empty stools on either side of her. I chose one
two seats to her left, leaving a nice, respectable
distance between us.
She seemed to stiffen as I settled in to my new place;
her shoulders straightened, and she turned ever so
slightly away from me. She did, however, finally
raise the glass to her lips and drink, which I took as a
sign of good progress.
I cleared my throat as inconspicuously as I could, and
continued to scribble little nonsense phrases in my
notebook: "red flame, tendril of hair licking at her
cheek", "burning drink down a slender throat", crap
like that.
Two big swallows later, she set the empty glass
firmly down on the bar. As Greg made a beeline for
her, ready as always to move in with oh-so-innocent
bartender chatter, I asked, "May I buy you another
one of those?"
She turned to me so quickly, it made my own neck
hurt. Her blue-gray eyes appraised me coolly, and
apparently she didn't hate what she saw, for she gave
a crooked smile and shrugged. "Sure."
Greg was glaring at me, but I just smiled at him.
"She'll have another," I said to him, and he stomped
away.
Her shoulders lifted slightly in a soundless laugh. "I
think you just saved me from certain small talk," she
said dryly, pushing the empty glass away from her.
"Nah, Greg's all right. Just a little eager." I smiled
at her, and she responded with one of her own. She
really was beautiful.
"Thank you," she said, then repeated the words when
Greg set another drink in front of her. Once again,
she began her routine of sizing up the drink, then
turning it slowly before drinking. I still couldn't tell
what she held in her other hand, but from the motion
she made, I knew she was still flipping it back and
forth between her fingers.
"Um . . ." A thread of nervousness wound its way
through me, and I cleared my throat again. "Haven't
seen you in here before." Oh, Jesus, I thought,
mentally smacking myself. How wonderfully
original. Not only are you supposed to be a writer, a
creative type, but she just made it perfectly obvious
that she wasn't interested in any small talk. Idiot!
But to my surprise, she gave another crooked smile
and said, "No, I usually don't hit the bars after work."
"You must have had a crappy day."
Now she turned to me, crossing her legs and
balancing the glass on her leg with her hand. "Why
do you say that?"
"Because you aren't really giving off that 'happy
hour' vibe." Okay, I thought, inwardly sighing with
relief. That's better.
She paused for a moment before replying, "You
know, I haven't had a happy hour in quite some time.
I'd kill for even a happy minute."
There was silence after that as she pondered her drink
again and I doodled a sloppy tree in the margin of my
notebook. She looked down, now staring into the
glass as if she were searching for something she had
lost. I took the opportunity to watch her, studying the
slight lines creasing the skin around her eyes and
mouth, the downward pull of her full lips.
She looked tired and rather sad. Maybe even
wounded. I wondered if she were here to drown her
sorrows or to exact some sort of revenge. My gaze
trailed down her arm until they came to rest on her
left hand. No ring.
When I raised my eyes back to hers, she had a
sheepish smile on her face; I realized that she had just
done the same thing. We shared a smile.
"I'm Mike," I said, extending my hand.
She hesitated only a second before taking it. "Dana."
Dana. I rolled her name silently on my tongue,
enjoying it. Of course, she didn't know whether or
not I had simply slipped a wedding ring into my
pocket in order to lure some company for the night.
And I didn't know if she had done the same.
"So, um . . . what do you do, Dana?" She gave a
brief sigh and studied me, as if deciding which lie to
tell. I decided to save her the trouble. "I know - you
could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me, right?"
She laughed then, a bright, short exclamation that
changed her whole countenance, if only for a second.
"Something like that, yeah." With a final tilt of her
wrist, she drained her second drink. "How about
you?"
I raised my empty glass in Greg's direction, gesturing
for more. "Sorry, that's classified." She laughed
again, a bit longer this time. I guessed that laughing
was something she didn't do very often. I wanted to
make her laugh more. I wanted to make her happy.
In the brief minutes I had known her, I wanted to
dedicate the rest of my life to doing just that. I
wanted to tell her this, and watch the horror spread
over her face, but instead I said, "I'm a writer."
An interesting expression flashed across her face; it
looked like a mixture of apprehension and dry
amusement. "What do you write?" She murmured
another thanks to Greg, who eyed me silently while
placing another Guinness before me. I ignored him.
"Nothing, if the past few months have been any
indication." I took a gulp of bitter, cold beer. "I sold
two short stories five months ago, but my streak
seems to have ended."
Her third drink disappeared faster, and we talked
about books and life in D.C. As her glass emptied,
her smile grew. My second beer made me bold.
"Dana, would you . . . " The words started out of my
throat before the sensible part of my beer-logged
brain could disagree. She leaned towards me, legs
crossed, smile beautiful, tipsy anticipation in her
bright eyes. ". . . would you like to come home with
me?"
Her smile didn't fade. She didn't turn away. She
didn't get up and leave. She simply stared at me,
sizing me up as she had done with her first drink.
"Mike," she said in a matter-of-fact voice. "Are you
propositioning me?"
"Not if you're an undercover cop posing as a
hooker," I blurted, then swallowed heavily.
"If I were a little more sober, I'd kick your ass for
that." Then she did turn away from me, and my heart
began its downward descent, until I realized she was
just grabbing her purse from the bar.
She hesitated for just a moment before finally
exposing the item she had been clutching. As she
tossed it on the bar, it slid and clanked against her
empty glass. It was a gold wedding band.
I stared at it, blinking furiously, unsure if I should say
something or ignore it entirely. It was a smooth,
thick band, and I realized that it would be much too
large for her slender finger; it was a man's wedding
band.
She stood and pinned me with an unwavering gaze.
"Let's go."
We walked silently, but with steady strides, the two
blocks to my nearly empty apartment. Half-packed
boxes littered the living room, and she tripped over a
roll of packing tape as she strode inside.
I moved to kiss her in the dark of the living room, but
she turned her head aside at the last second. Startled,
I opened my mouth to question her, but closed it
when she took my hand and led me down the hall.
"It's the room on the left," I whispered, but I doubted
she really needed the directions.
Dana moved with a purpose, and I again fleetingly
wondered if she were exacting some sort of revenge
with me. The room was empty save for my bed and a
bedside table. She stood in the middle of the room
and reached up and back, releasing her hair from the
clip. Without skipping a beat, she peeled the
turtleneck over her head and stepped towards me,
reaching for the hem of my shirt and struggling to get
it over my head.
Jesus, I thought. I wanted to tell her to slow down, I
wanted to take the time to kiss her thoroughly, to run
my hands through that beautiful hair, to learn her
body, learn as much as I could about her. But I
didn't have the nerve to interrupt.
When she reached up to pull my head down to hers, I
bent to lace my arms with hers, gripping her bare
back and fumbling with the clasp on her plain, white
bra. She tasted like lipstick and whiskey, with an
underlying hint of something I couldn't put my finger
on. I wondered if I tasted like cigarettes.
With her chest bare, I raised my hands to gently cup
her breasts, but she pushed me away almost roughly,
reaching for the buttons on my fly. I wanted to stop
her, ask her why she was so impatient when we had
all night, when we had the rest of our lives, but my
stiffening cock overruled my sappy heart.
I gave a fumbling apology about having to find a
condom, then raced to dig through an already packed
box in the bathroom, scattering bottles of aspirin,
rolls of toilet paper, and bars of Dial soap in the
process.
Stepping back into the bedroom, I saw her on the
bed, stretched naked on top of the comforter and
watching me with her intelligent eyes. My mouth
dropped open and I quickly clamped it shut again,
lest I look like an overeager 16-year old about to lose
his virginity.
Still wishing I could slow this sped-up film down, I
yanked down my jeans and boxers. She watched as I
undressed, not saying a word, not even blinking, it
seemed.
When I went to her, she kissed me again, slowly and
deeply. I tasted that unnameable thing on her tongue,
on the roof of her mouth, on her full lips. When she
touched me, I bit down on my tongue to stop myself
from blurting out that I wanted to father her children.
When she turned me over and lowered herself onto
my cock, I moaned and was careful not to let it sound
like 'I love you'. When I came inside of her after I
had stroked her to orgasm, I allowed myself to
whisper her name, twice.
I woke some time later. I was immediately
embarrassed for having fallen asleep, then frantic
when I realized that she was gone.
But then there she was, standing by the window,
wrapped in the sheet and smoking one of my
cigarettes. She watched the night through the flimsy
curtain, bending every so often to blow smoke
through the open window. "Hey," I said, rubbing my
eyes to hide the relieved tears that had suddenly
appeared.
She turned to give me a soft smile. "Hey."
I sat up, bunching the comforter around me. "Do you
. . . um . . . can I get you something? To drink?"
"Yeah, thanks. Some coffee would be nice, if you
have some."
"Coffee. Okay." I swung my legs over the bed and
pulled on my jeans. I wanted to kiss her so much, but
at that moment, she seemed so utterly untouchable
that I left the room quickly, without another word.
When I returned, I was disappointed to see that she
had dressed. "Dana?" She looked up and smiled a
genuine smile that warmed my heart. Maybe I could
convince her to stay. Maybe I could convince her
that she was the one I had been waiting for. "How do
you take it?"
"Black is fine. Thank you," she added as I handed
her the steaming mug with the Superman logo on it.
"All my chairs are already in Chicago," I said
apologetically, gesturing towards the rumpled bed.
"That's fine." We sat on the edge of the bed, sipping
the hot coffee carefully. "Chicago?"
"Yeah. I was divorced six months ago. Seemed like
a good place for a fresh start."
"Hm. It's cold there."
"It's cold here," I countered, and she smiled her
agreement. She was breathtaking: pale skin in the
moonlight, tousled hair, strong hands cupped around
the goofy mug. "Dana," I began, wanting to explain
that I really wasn't the kind of guy who picked up
strange women in familiar bars, but she stopped me.
"Don't, Mike," she said gently, resting her hand over
mine. She's going to kiss me, I realized as she leaned
closer, mug balanced on her right thigh.
The sound of a cell phone interrupted us, startling her
enough to gasp and jerk slightly, sloshing coffee onto
her leg. "Shit," she hissed, jumping up and brushing
at her leg. I took the mug from her, and she went
across the room to get her purse from the floor.
I set the mug down on the open notebook on the
bedside table. I watched a few trickles of coffee
wind their way down the sides to stain the white of
the paper.
"Scully," she snapped into her retrieved phone.
"Yeah. What? How . . . ? Is
he . . . " Her voice had become hushed and
frightened, and I turned to watch her. One hand
clutching the phone to her ear, the other grasping at
her hair, she continued, "I'll be right there." She
ended the call, her head bowing slightly. I could hear
her breathing. I wanted to hear that sound beside me
until the day I died.
She turned back to me, her eyes moist. "I have to
go."
I reached across the bed for my shirt. "Let me drive
you."
She waved a hand in a brief dismissal and bent to
grab her shoes. "No, no, you don't have to."
"Let me drive you," I repeated. She paused, then
nodded in acceptance. She grabbed her purse, I
grabbed my keys, and we went to my beat-up Honda.
"Where to?"
"Georgetown Medical."
"Everything all right?" I asked as we pulled into
traffic. Glancing at her, I saw the tight grip she held
on the purse in her lap.
"No. No, it's not." She uttered a tiny, humorless
laugh and raised a hand to brush away a tear that I
couldn't even see.
I drove as fast as I dared, watching out for cops.
Beside me, Dana said nothing, but I could hear how
afraid she was.
Ten minutes later, I pulled up to the emergency room
entrance. She didn't move to get out, but instead
looked at me. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I hope everything's okay," I told her, wetting my
dry lips. I was aching to give her a kiss, to hold her,
even if only for a moment. "Can I see you again?"
She reached for the door handle and turned away,
repeating, "I'm sorry." And then she was running up
to the automatic doors, running out of my life.
I sat for a moment before realizing that I was
possibly in the way of ambulances. Pulling into a
visitor parking spot, I let the car idle and rubbed my
hands over my face.
I stayed there for a good fifteen or twenty minutes,
replaying every moment of the past few hours, seeing
her smile, her hair, her body arching over mine, her
appraising eyes. In my life, I hadn't been sure of
many things, my ex-wife Becky included. I wasn't
even sure that Chicago was the best place for me.
But with an urgency I had never felt before, I was
sure that I needed to be with Dana. I knew nothing
about her, or she about me. I assumed her last name
was Scully. I knew she was beautiful. I knew her
skin smelled like sandalwood and her hair smelled
faintly of lemons. I knew her lips tasted like . . . like
something, something I couldn't put my finger on,
but wanted to keep tasting until the day I died.
I did know that what I was feeling was infatuation
and lust, and would probably fade quickly, but I
needed to take that chance. Chicago was a decision I
could change. But if I let Dana go this easily, that
would be a decision I could not.
I got out of the car and practically ran into the
hospital. The admitting nurse looked at me
expectantly as I gripped the edge of the hard counter
and asked, "Can you tell me where I can find Dana
Scully? Short, red hair, came in just a minute ago?"
Before she could deny my request, I saw her glance
down the hall in the direction Dana had gone. Not
letting her turn me away, I jogged down the hall,
ignoring her calls of "Sir? Sir, you can't go in there.
Hey!"
Through the third door I passed, I caught a glimpse of
red and stopped, watching silently from the doorway.
There was Dana, bent over the still form of a dark-
haired man hooked up to an IV, a bandage on his
forehead.
There was Dana, stroking his fingers and murmuring
things that I couldn't hear, that I could only wish she
would whisper to me, just once.
I guess I wasn't surprised to see that he looked like
me, but with a bigger nose and a shorter haircut.
As the security guard took my arm and led me away,
I realized that she had tasted like regret and a hefty
amount of guilt, but that didn't really surprise me
either.
XXX
I traced a finger around the faded coffee stain,
picturing her standing in my bedroom, jeans damp
with spilled coffee.
"So what was her name?" Greg asked.
"Dana."
"Too bad, man." He didn't even try to hide the
triumphant tone in his voice. I ignored him, and he
walked away.
"Yeah," I whispered, picking up my pen and
beginning to write. "Too bad."
END
Well? Want to know more about this mysterious
wedding band? Wondering why the heck our
beloved Scully is off boffing someone other than
Mulder? Stay tuned for the continuing
stooooooooory of a cat . . . who's gone to the dogs.
Feedback lovingly cherished at: spartcus1@msn.com
Author: Alicia K
Feedback: Oh yeah! Spartcus1@msn.com
Rating: R, for sexual situations
Spoilers: None.
Classification: Scully/Other
Summary: Musings of a disappointed man.
Archive: Spooky site, please. Anywhere else, please
ask.
Disclaimer: No infringement intended. Please and
thank you.
The title comes from the Squeeze song by the same
name. Snazzy tune!
Thank you to my ever-helpful beta team for their help
and honesty: Jamie, Joanna, Mish, and Caz. And
thanks for letting me argue with you! g
Story can also be found at my website:
http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/enter.html
XXX
"Another one?" Greg asked me, taking my empty
bottle away.
I shook my head. "Coffee." I lit a fresh cigarette and
flipped open my notebook, preparing to write
something, anything, to put down on paper the events
of the previous night.
Greg returned with a chipped mug and a pot of
coffee. "Black?"
"Yeah," I sighed, staring down at the smudged, tan
ring on the white paper. The wrinkled circle made
me think of that old song by Squeeze, the one about
lips full of passion.
I had a visual memory of her sitting next to me on my
bed, mug of coffee precariously balanced on her
thigh as she leaned in to kiss me. I shook my head,
grimacing.
"So what happened with that knockout you left here
with last night?" Greg asked me as he walked to the
other end of the empty bar.
"Took her home," I answered without any glimmer of
suggestion.
"And?"
"Won't be seeing her again."
Greg groaned in sympathy. "Damn. That's a shame.
She was somethin' else, man."
Yeah, she sure was.
XXX
She was Dana; she of the flame-red hair, flawless
skin, and lips to slay for. I was sitting at the corner
table, nursing a pint of Guinness and smoking, my
notebook open before me as I tried to start my next,
unmarketable short story.
She walked in with purpose, apparently not noticing
(or ignoring) the five heads that turned her way, mine
included. She was hard to miss, with such a perfect
little body and that hair, pulled back in a black clip.
Her black turtleneck was snug, as were her faded
jeans.
I found myself jotting down these things, filling half
a page with descriptive narrative before I looked up
again. She was at the bar with a glass in front of her.
Her eyes remained fixed on the drink, as if she were
trying to communicate telepathically with it. She
held something small in her right hand. I couldn't
tell what it was, but the dim light in the bar glinted
off of its surface as she toyed with it.
Behind the bar, Greg was eyeing her with interest,
and something in me reared up. I didn't want anyone
trying to zero in on her. I wanted her to remain just
the way she was at that moment: quiet, still, and
seemingly trying to muster the courage to down her
drink.
Recovering alcoholic falling off the wagon? I
wondered as she raised one pale hand to slowly turn
the glass around and around, not picking it up off the
bar. Or just an abysmally shitty day?
I decided I really wanted to know.
Now, I wasn't the kind of guy who picked up women
in bars, even bars that I regularly frequent. Even if I
hadn't been recently divorced and in the process of
moving to Chicago, I wouldn't be out looking for a
quick lay.
But this woman, I liked. I hadn't even gotten a good
look at her eyes, to see if they were full of mischief,
or sorrow, or maybe even fury. I just liked the way
she carried herself, the way she strode purposefully
into the bar, only to hesitate with drink in hand. I
liked the way she looked, too, but that was almost
incidental.
Before I could convince myself that this was a Bad
Idea, I gathered my notebook, pen, and drink and
headed over to the bar. It was still early, and there
were empty stools on either side of her. I chose one
two seats to her left, leaving a nice, respectable
distance between us.
She seemed to stiffen as I settled in to my new place;
her shoulders straightened, and she turned ever so
slightly away from me. She did, however, finally
raise the glass to her lips and drink, which I took as a
sign of good progress.
I cleared my throat as inconspicuously as I could, and
continued to scribble little nonsense phrases in my
notebook: "red flame, tendril of hair licking at her
cheek", "burning drink down a slender throat", crap
like that.
Two big swallows later, she set the empty glass
firmly down on the bar. As Greg made a beeline for
her, ready as always to move in with oh-so-innocent
bartender chatter, I asked, "May I buy you another
one of those?"
She turned to me so quickly, it made my own neck
hurt. Her blue-gray eyes appraised me coolly, and
apparently she didn't hate what she saw, for she gave
a crooked smile and shrugged. "Sure."
Greg was glaring at me, but I just smiled at him.
"She'll have another," I said to him, and he stomped
away.
Her shoulders lifted slightly in a soundless laugh. "I
think you just saved me from certain small talk," she
said dryly, pushing the empty glass away from her.
"Nah, Greg's all right. Just a little eager." I smiled
at her, and she responded with one of her own. She
really was beautiful.
"Thank you," she said, then repeated the words when
Greg set another drink in front of her. Once again,
she began her routine of sizing up the drink, then
turning it slowly before drinking. I still couldn't tell
what she held in her other hand, but from the motion
she made, I knew she was still flipping it back and
forth between her fingers.
"Um . . ." A thread of nervousness wound its way
through me, and I cleared my throat again. "Haven't
seen you in here before." Oh, Jesus, I thought,
mentally smacking myself. How wonderfully
original. Not only are you supposed to be a writer, a
creative type, but she just made it perfectly obvious
that she wasn't interested in any small talk. Idiot!
But to my surprise, she gave another crooked smile
and said, "No, I usually don't hit the bars after work."
"You must have had a crappy day."
Now she turned to me, crossing her legs and
balancing the glass on her leg with her hand. "Why
do you say that?"
"Because you aren't really giving off that 'happy
hour' vibe." Okay, I thought, inwardly sighing with
relief. That's better.
She paused for a moment before replying, "You
know, I haven't had a happy hour in quite some time.
I'd kill for even a happy minute."
There was silence after that as she pondered her drink
again and I doodled a sloppy tree in the margin of my
notebook. She looked down, now staring into the
glass as if she were searching for something she had
lost. I took the opportunity to watch her, studying the
slight lines creasing the skin around her eyes and
mouth, the downward pull of her full lips.
She looked tired and rather sad. Maybe even
wounded. I wondered if she were here to drown her
sorrows or to exact some sort of revenge. My gaze
trailed down her arm until they came to rest on her
left hand. No ring.
When I raised my eyes back to hers, she had a
sheepish smile on her face; I realized that she had just
done the same thing. We shared a smile.
"I'm Mike," I said, extending my hand.
She hesitated only a second before taking it. "Dana."
Dana. I rolled her name silently on my tongue,
enjoying it. Of course, she didn't know whether or
not I had simply slipped a wedding ring into my
pocket in order to lure some company for the night.
And I didn't know if she had done the same.
"So, um . . . what do you do, Dana?" She gave a
brief sigh and studied me, as if deciding which lie to
tell. I decided to save her the trouble. "I know - you
could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me, right?"
She laughed then, a bright, short exclamation that
changed her whole countenance, if only for a second.
"Something like that, yeah." With a final tilt of her
wrist, she drained her second drink. "How about
you?"
I raised my empty glass in Greg's direction, gesturing
for more. "Sorry, that's classified." She laughed
again, a bit longer this time. I guessed that laughing
was something she didn't do very often. I wanted to
make her laugh more. I wanted to make her happy.
In the brief minutes I had known her, I wanted to
dedicate the rest of my life to doing just that. I
wanted to tell her this, and watch the horror spread
over her face, but instead I said, "I'm a writer."
An interesting expression flashed across her face; it
looked like a mixture of apprehension and dry
amusement. "What do you write?" She murmured
another thanks to Greg, who eyed me silently while
placing another Guinness before me. I ignored him.
"Nothing, if the past few months have been any
indication." I took a gulp of bitter, cold beer. "I sold
two short stories five months ago, but my streak
seems to have ended."
Her third drink disappeared faster, and we talked
about books and life in D.C. As her glass emptied,
her smile grew. My second beer made me bold.
"Dana, would you . . . " The words started out of my
throat before the sensible part of my beer-logged
brain could disagree. She leaned towards me, legs
crossed, smile beautiful, tipsy anticipation in her
bright eyes. ". . . would you like to come home with
me?"
Her smile didn't fade. She didn't turn away. She
didn't get up and leave. She simply stared at me,
sizing me up as she had done with her first drink.
"Mike," she said in a matter-of-fact voice. "Are you
propositioning me?"
"Not if you're an undercover cop posing as a
hooker," I blurted, then swallowed heavily.
"If I were a little more sober, I'd kick your ass for
that." Then she did turn away from me, and my heart
began its downward descent, until I realized she was
just grabbing her purse from the bar.
She hesitated for just a moment before finally
exposing the item she had been clutching. As she
tossed it on the bar, it slid and clanked against her
empty glass. It was a gold wedding band.
I stared at it, blinking furiously, unsure if I should say
something or ignore it entirely. It was a smooth,
thick band, and I realized that it would be much too
large for her slender finger; it was a man's wedding
band.
She stood and pinned me with an unwavering gaze.
"Let's go."
We walked silently, but with steady strides, the two
blocks to my nearly empty apartment. Half-packed
boxes littered the living room, and she tripped over a
roll of packing tape as she strode inside.
I moved to kiss her in the dark of the living room, but
she turned her head aside at the last second. Startled,
I opened my mouth to question her, but closed it
when she took my hand and led me down the hall.
"It's the room on the left," I whispered, but I doubted
she really needed the directions.
Dana moved with a purpose, and I again fleetingly
wondered if she were exacting some sort of revenge
with me. The room was empty save for my bed and a
bedside table. She stood in the middle of the room
and reached up and back, releasing her hair from the
clip. Without skipping a beat, she peeled the
turtleneck over her head and stepped towards me,
reaching for the hem of my shirt and struggling to get
it over my head.
Jesus, I thought. I wanted to tell her to slow down, I
wanted to take the time to kiss her thoroughly, to run
my hands through that beautiful hair, to learn her
body, learn as much as I could about her. But I
didn't have the nerve to interrupt.
When she reached up to pull my head down to hers, I
bent to lace my arms with hers, gripping her bare
back and fumbling with the clasp on her plain, white
bra. She tasted like lipstick and whiskey, with an
underlying hint of something I couldn't put my finger
on. I wondered if I tasted like cigarettes.
With her chest bare, I raised my hands to gently cup
her breasts, but she pushed me away almost roughly,
reaching for the buttons on my fly. I wanted to stop
her, ask her why she was so impatient when we had
all night, when we had the rest of our lives, but my
stiffening cock overruled my sappy heart.
I gave a fumbling apology about having to find a
condom, then raced to dig through an already packed
box in the bathroom, scattering bottles of aspirin,
rolls of toilet paper, and bars of Dial soap in the
process.
Stepping back into the bedroom, I saw her on the
bed, stretched naked on top of the comforter and
watching me with her intelligent eyes. My mouth
dropped open and I quickly clamped it shut again,
lest I look like an overeager 16-year old about to lose
his virginity.
Still wishing I could slow this sped-up film down, I
yanked down my jeans and boxers. She watched as I
undressed, not saying a word, not even blinking, it
seemed.
When I went to her, she kissed me again, slowly and
deeply. I tasted that unnameable thing on her tongue,
on the roof of her mouth, on her full lips. When she
touched me, I bit down on my tongue to stop myself
from blurting out that I wanted to father her children.
When she turned me over and lowered herself onto
my cock, I moaned and was careful not to let it sound
like 'I love you'. When I came inside of her after I
had stroked her to orgasm, I allowed myself to
whisper her name, twice.
I woke some time later. I was immediately
embarrassed for having fallen asleep, then frantic
when I realized that she was gone.
But then there she was, standing by the window,
wrapped in the sheet and smoking one of my
cigarettes. She watched the night through the flimsy
curtain, bending every so often to blow smoke
through the open window. "Hey," I said, rubbing my
eyes to hide the relieved tears that had suddenly
appeared.
She turned to give me a soft smile. "Hey."
I sat up, bunching the comforter around me. "Do you
. . . um . . . can I get you something? To drink?"
"Yeah, thanks. Some coffee would be nice, if you
have some."
"Coffee. Okay." I swung my legs over the bed and
pulled on my jeans. I wanted to kiss her so much, but
at that moment, she seemed so utterly untouchable
that I left the room quickly, without another word.
When I returned, I was disappointed to see that she
had dressed. "Dana?" She looked up and smiled a
genuine smile that warmed my heart. Maybe I could
convince her to stay. Maybe I could convince her
that she was the one I had been waiting for. "How do
you take it?"
"Black is fine. Thank you," she added as I handed
her the steaming mug with the Superman logo on it.
"All my chairs are already in Chicago," I said
apologetically, gesturing towards the rumpled bed.
"That's fine." We sat on the edge of the bed, sipping
the hot coffee carefully. "Chicago?"
"Yeah. I was divorced six months ago. Seemed like
a good place for a fresh start."
"Hm. It's cold there."
"It's cold here," I countered, and she smiled her
agreement. She was breathtaking: pale skin in the
moonlight, tousled hair, strong hands cupped around
the goofy mug. "Dana," I began, wanting to explain
that I really wasn't the kind of guy who picked up
strange women in familiar bars, but she stopped me.
"Don't, Mike," she said gently, resting her hand over
mine. She's going to kiss me, I realized as she leaned
closer, mug balanced on her right thigh.
The sound of a cell phone interrupted us, startling her
enough to gasp and jerk slightly, sloshing coffee onto
her leg. "Shit," she hissed, jumping up and brushing
at her leg. I took the mug from her, and she went
across the room to get her purse from the floor.
I set the mug down on the open notebook on the
bedside table. I watched a few trickles of coffee
wind their way down the sides to stain the white of
the paper.
"Scully," she snapped into her retrieved phone.
"Yeah. What? How . . . ? Is
he . . . " Her voice had become hushed and
frightened, and I turned to watch her. One hand
clutching the phone to her ear, the other grasping at
her hair, she continued, "I'll be right there." She
ended the call, her head bowing slightly. I could hear
her breathing. I wanted to hear that sound beside me
until the day I died.
She turned back to me, her eyes moist. "I have to
go."
I reached across the bed for my shirt. "Let me drive
you."
She waved a hand in a brief dismissal and bent to
grab her shoes. "No, no, you don't have to."
"Let me drive you," I repeated. She paused, then
nodded in acceptance. She grabbed her purse, I
grabbed my keys, and we went to my beat-up Honda.
"Where to?"
"Georgetown Medical."
"Everything all right?" I asked as we pulled into
traffic. Glancing at her, I saw the tight grip she held
on the purse in her lap.
"No. No, it's not." She uttered a tiny, humorless
laugh and raised a hand to brush away a tear that I
couldn't even see.
I drove as fast as I dared, watching out for cops.
Beside me, Dana said nothing, but I could hear how
afraid she was.
Ten minutes later, I pulled up to the emergency room
entrance. She didn't move to get out, but instead
looked at me. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I hope everything's okay," I told her, wetting my
dry lips. I was aching to give her a kiss, to hold her,
even if only for a moment. "Can I see you again?"
She reached for the door handle and turned away,
repeating, "I'm sorry." And then she was running up
to the automatic doors, running out of my life.
I sat for a moment before realizing that I was
possibly in the way of ambulances. Pulling into a
visitor parking spot, I let the car idle and rubbed my
hands over my face.
I stayed there for a good fifteen or twenty minutes,
replaying every moment of the past few hours, seeing
her smile, her hair, her body arching over mine, her
appraising eyes. In my life, I hadn't been sure of
many things, my ex-wife Becky included. I wasn't
even sure that Chicago was the best place for me.
But with an urgency I had never felt before, I was
sure that I needed to be with Dana. I knew nothing
about her, or she about me. I assumed her last name
was Scully. I knew she was beautiful. I knew her
skin smelled like sandalwood and her hair smelled
faintly of lemons. I knew her lips tasted like . . . like
something, something I couldn't put my finger on,
but wanted to keep tasting until the day I died.
I did know that what I was feeling was infatuation
and lust, and would probably fade quickly, but I
needed to take that chance. Chicago was a decision I
could change. But if I let Dana go this easily, that
would be a decision I could not.
I got out of the car and practically ran into the
hospital. The admitting nurse looked at me
expectantly as I gripped the edge of the hard counter
and asked, "Can you tell me where I can find Dana
Scully? Short, red hair, came in just a minute ago?"
Before she could deny my request, I saw her glance
down the hall in the direction Dana had gone. Not
letting her turn me away, I jogged down the hall,
ignoring her calls of "Sir? Sir, you can't go in there.
Hey!"
Through the third door I passed, I caught a glimpse of
red and stopped, watching silently from the doorway.
There was Dana, bent over the still form of a dark-
haired man hooked up to an IV, a bandage on his
forehead.
There was Dana, stroking his fingers and murmuring
things that I couldn't hear, that I could only wish she
would whisper to me, just once.
I guess I wasn't surprised to see that he looked like
me, but with a bigger nose and a shorter haircut.
As the security guard took my arm and led me away,
I realized that she had tasted like regret and a hefty
amount of guilt, but that didn't really surprise me
either.
XXX
I traced a finger around the faded coffee stain,
picturing her standing in my bedroom, jeans damp
with spilled coffee.
"So what was her name?" Greg asked.
"Dana."
"Too bad, man." He didn't even try to hide the
triumphant tone in his voice. I ignored him, and he
walked away.
"Yeah," I whispered, picking up my pen and
beginning to write. "Too bad."
END
Well? Want to know more about this mysterious
wedding band? Wondering why the heck our
beloved Scully is off boffing someone other than
Mulder? Stay tuned for the continuing
stooooooooory of a cat . . . who's gone to the dogs.
Feedback lovingly cherished at: spartcus1@msn.com