Comments, complaints and just plain talk to sheryl_martin@tvo.org
Summary: Thoughts late one Saturday night...Rating: G, S...
Saturday Nightby Sheryl Martin
He worked.
He pored over the latest MUFON newsletter; the new issue of Psychology Quarterly; the UFO magazine from the local newsstand where the dealer knew him well enough to put it atop the stack of magazines reserved for Mulder.
He flipped page after page, turning down edges of articles he would want to clip later; highlighting and underlining phrases that appealed to him in some strange poetic sense; scribbling notes in the margin to debunk or support the theories put forth.
He arranged them all into piles, read and to be read; read and to be clipped; not read yet.
And he tried not to let his eyes waver from the words, to wander over the couch and up to where the picture sat safely; tucked into a large book on the top shelf. He didn't need to see it, the image burned into his mind's eye as securely as a brand declaring the animal's ownership.
Because if he did, then he would not be able to work anymore.
And then he would die.
Lifting the mug of instant coffee to his mouth instinctively, he squinted and pushed his glasses further up his nose.
***********
She worked.
She waded through the medical magazines; the Academy updates on the latest forensic techniques; the FBI newsletters in her division.
She carefully clipped out paragraph after paragraph; stapled pages together; hunted down bibliographies from the back and attached them to the proper story to be placed in the file folders at her desk.
She filled the recycling box efficiently and quickly; stacking the remains and wrapping string around to tie them into bundles and make it easier to lift them out.
And she tried desperately not to look at the pictures set above the fireplace; of a sister and of a father no longer able to respond to her questions and queries about work and life. She couldn't look at them without the guilt seeping into her mind like a dark cloud, blotting out the light of her heart again.
Because if she stopped working then she would be lost forever.
And she would die.
The coffee pot burbled in the kitchen as she refilled her mug and wiped the inky smudges off her glasses.
**********
And each of them thought about the other; the partner, the friend. If he/she was out on a date, of course they had to be, who wouldn't want to go out with him/her on a Saturday night?
And what would he/she be doing with this unnamed other person, if they would talk about their friend, their partner, if the other person would assume something strange about him/her in the way they talked and laughed about their friend, their partner?
And would he/she call when they got home, to ask how the other one was and if he/she had seen the latest show on the Discovery Channel and they would see each other at work on Monday, right?
********
Ring... ring...
"Mulder..."
"Scully..."
"Oh... you're home."
"Yah... you too?"
"Yah..."
**********
ÒThe bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each otherÕs life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.ÓRichard Bach -- ÒIllusionsÓ