NIGHT TOUCH
Author: Sophia Jirafe
Classification: VA, R for sexual situations
Summary: Intimacy is a narrow path.
Spoilers: Orison, Theef, En Ami. A seventh season
mindset is helpful.
Archive: Freely. A note would be nice.
Disclaimer: When I can surf, I'll claim them as mine.
Don't hold your breath.
Feedback: Yes, please. skepticgirl@yahoo.com
Endless thanks to: The gracious and kind Jintian, for the
beta that completes me.
*************
She thinks that maybe if she just curls herself up tightly
enough he'll forget she's there. Perhaps the cool sheets
will render her invisible, or the firm mattress open into
a woman-shaped crevasse leading straight to the rocky bowels
of the earth. Or maybe she'll just go sit in the bathroom
until he falls asleep, then creep silently back to bed and
position herself as far from his body as she can get.
Maybe he just won't be in the mood tonight.
She tenses, measuring the heat emanating from his still form,
smelling him cautiously, trying to determine his intentions
from the rhythm of his breathing. It's slow, deep, and calm.
He lies on his back as usual, taking up most of her small bed,
legs spread wide and arms at his sides. She contemplates
turning over to see if his face has smoothed out into the mask
of sleep, that false peace that comes over him with the night,
whatever dark dreams lurk behind twitching eyelids. He sleeps
lightly, though, and even her slight movements might pull him
from the thin veil of slumber that she hopes has fallen over him.
She doesn't want that.
Instead she makes a valiant attempt at being both relaxed and
vigilant, willing her body to sleep and her mind to guard
against any surprise attacks. Two nights ago he caught her in
the twilight of consciousness, too sleepy to resist warm strong
hands reaching beneath the thin satin of her nightgown. Tonight
she's wearing rough cotton pajamas, buttoned up tight. It will
take more than pushing up her slip to get past her defenses now.
She probably should have told him how she felt months ago, when this
heavy malaise started. The instant she began to hate the loving
weight of his prisoning hands, she should have looked into his
eyes with tenderness, and told him she was going to go crazy if
he didn't stop touching her. That their first heady kisses have
turned to mundane obligation. That he's had her heart and soul
for years--now she wants her body back.
This isn't healthy, she remembers. She knows, with the part of
her mind that still thinks rationally, that protecting herself from
love is not the action of a normal woman. Swathing herself in cloth
and a don't-touch-me aura are not the most effective ways to deal
with a problem. She's thirty-five, not thirteen.
None of this deters her from lying on the extreme edge of the
bed and praying to God or whoever she believes in this week
that he won't wake up, won't want her, won't expect her to love
him for the muscles of his body and the warmth of his kisses
and the way he snuffles "I love you" into her sensitive ear
just after groaning and trembling and just before collapsing
into oblivion.
This is the eleventh stupid thing that smart women do to mess
up their lives--sex in exchange for intimacy. Twelve: Endurance
for security. Thirteen: Silence in the hope that he'll notice.
Or maybe they're just the stupid things she does to mess up her
lurching, patched-up hurricane of a life.
He stirs.
She grits her teeth, feeling cold anticipation move through her
tensed muscles, fearful blood flowing witlessly in her veins,
seeking a place to hide. Please no. Don't let me have to tell
him tonight. Let the pain wait until I can see him in the light.
I refuse to make the refusal now.
He places his hand on her calf, just below her knee, squeezing
gently. She feels dead and cold. The hand slides its way slowly
up her leg, grazing her outer thigh, setting the hairs on end.
She's ticklish, cruelly so, but does her best to quell the electric
shivers that threaten to betray her. He rests his hand on her hip,
holding the curves he knows so well. She wills him to roll over and
go back to sleep. Or leave the hand where it is, it doesn't matter--
just stop now. Don't make me hurt you.
With passionate swiftness, he molds the whole overwhelming length of
his body around hers; bony knees against her legs, arm wrapped tight
around her waist, heavy hot breath in her hair, his groin warm and
fierce against her. He first rubs the top of her thigh, then
brushes upwards, over her soft flat stomach to cup around her left
breast. He tightens the hold, brushing a thumb over the rebellious
nipple that hardens beneath the cloth of her pajamas. He makes a
shallow, quick thrust against her, as if showing final proof of his
desire. She thinks she's going to be sick.
"I know you're awake," he whispers, the raspy tone of it setting her
teeth on edge. "You were so tired before--did you wait for me?"
She's going to cry. She isn't ready to tell him the truth, that if
staying up all night would have kept him asleep, she would have done
it. She can't nod either, without hating herself. She remains still,
even though she knows silence always means acquiescence with him.
"I thought so," he whispers, and she knows he is smiling. His
ministrations begin in earnest now, his hands slipping into their
familiar routine of caresses, upper body first. He massages her left
shoulder, then slides his hand back around to begin unbuttoning her
shirt, slowly. She fights the urge to grasp his hand in protest. I love
him. I love him. His lotion-soft fingers tiptoe in, drawing those light
circles that she used to love on her stomach, her chest. He feathers
her breasts, pinching her nipples lightly and briefly. He kneads,
massages, caresses. She's afraid she's going to throw up or scream if
he doesn't get his hands off her soon. She repeats her mantra of
distraction. I love him. I love him.
Instead of reading her mind, he pulls her gently onto her back,
propping himself up on his elbow. She keeps her eyes closed, paper
eyelids holding back a thin layer of tears. I love him. He pulls
down at her waistband, taking pants and underwear at once. Tonight she
has no excuse, no illness or early morning autopsy or sore muscles to
keep him on his side of the bed. She never lies well, and especially
not under the sweetest pressure imaginable. What woman on earth would
dissemble in order to deny a lover like hers?
Things are moving faster now, his mouth on various parts of her body a
quick hot brush, leaving little moist patches that freeze her skin in
the cool night air. A few seconds' suction on each breast, a slick
trail dragged down to her pelvis, warm air breathed through the coarse
hair there. She closes her eyes tightly against this hurried seduction,
almost thankful for the rush. The quicker it starts, the quicker it
ends. She braces herself as he parts her thighs, fearing this intimacy.
A tiny miracle--he plants a quick kiss on her soft unfeeling flesh,
just enough to remind her of what it felt like to desire this
man, then moves away in order to get the show going. He takes down his
boxers, pulling them with sudden grace over his feet, then sits back
for a moment. Even in her self-made darkness, she knows what he's
doing. It's an old, old habit of his--to rest on his heels for a
moment, displaying himself before beginning his performance. In a young
man it would have been endearing. In him it verges on insufferable,
stayed only by the fact that she believes he is unaware that he does
it.
Her eyes should be open for this next part, but she keeps them closed,
hoping that perhaps he will mistake her held breath and tense form for
unbearable anticipation. He lies on her full-length, unknowing or
unmindful of the fact that his weight presses her diaphragm until her
breathing is thin and short. She feels him poking around between her
legs, taking forever as usual to find the right spot. She knows what
he's doing now--creasing his brow in frustration with her inconvenient
anatomy. He should have found himself a tall Amazon. The warm, thick
tip brushes her opening, and this is the moment where she should have
taken him in her hands and guided him into her heart and soul, into
love and ecstasy and bottomless bliss. She lies still for another
minute, waiting for him to get it right, half-hoping he will fail and
give up and go to sleep and in the morning be just her friendly partner
with the lewd eye and raunchy jokes again.
He pushes inside unexpectedly, the quick hard jolt almost enough to
wrench a scream from her. She bites her tongue quickly; screaming three
weeks ago brought a phone call from her long-suffering next door
neighbor and two hours of cuddling, apologies, and weak tea.
He knows how to proceed now--slowly, stretching her to accommodate the
width of him. There's probably something medically wrong with her, that
it takes so long to get past the initial pain of penetration, but she's
never been with anyone even approaching his size. Besides, shoemakers'
wives go barefoot, and doctors die young. Or is it doctors' wives? If
so, why is she the one to suffer through what could be any one
of a number of feminine, life-threatening ailments, so that he might
have nightly pleasure and release? And why does she always start to
think of logical arguments and proverbs and the dry cleaning she forgot
yesterday, just as he begins in earnest?
This isn't so bad. She can stand lying here, hands lightly on his
shoulders, legs spread just wide enough, eyes shut tight, while
something that should have been amazing goes on down *there*, in that
place she hardly thinks of as hers anymore. Dull sex, she can take
that. Stop at Sam's tomorrow, get the Jil Sanders suit and the heather
grey DK pants. Oven cleaner--the pot roast last week wreaked havoc.
Start filing the receipts from February. Worry about alien invasion.
Tell Mulder you can't stand it when he touches you.
It appears that something important is occurring in her nether regions.
An explosion is imminent, judging from his short pants and soft grunts.
The jackhammer pace is a dead giveaway too. She listens to him for a
while, removed from herself for a moment, almost enjoying the
secondhand pleasure she can feel in his body. The intensity increases,
and she opens her eyes just in time to see his close, as his thrusts
shudder too deep inside her. She bites her lip against the renewed pain.
Not going to scream. His face is truly beautiful, more relaxed and
abandoned than she ever sees it. She thinks for a moment that her love
for him might be able to survive this physical revulsion, that if she
were imprisoned with nothing but weekly visits separated by glass it
would be the same as it used to be.
A last harsh groan jolts out of him, and then he collapses as
usual, his weight doubled by his limp relaxation. The silence
in the room is a void. She wants him off of her, but knows she
has to wait for the denouement, the finishing touch. A panting
moment later, he struggles up to breathe his customary endearments
into her indifferent ear. Then he rolls off sluggishly, curling
into a ball that takes up most of the double bed. She lies still
for a moment, counting. Forty-six, forty-seven. His snores come
from nowhere, his hands clench convulsively, and his desired
oblivion is upon him.
For just a moment, she considers the idea that he loves her just
as much as she lusts for him--that he puts up with love in exchange
for pleasure, as she endures his touch in order to not be alone.
Dark waters, dangerous thoughts. She doesn't want to wander there
tonight.
Tired doesn't describe the way she feels right now. If she were a
darker person, she would say it was defeat. If she could bring
herself to hate him, she would say she felt used. If she were insane,
she might say she was happy.
She's hungry.
Knowing his slumber is at last tamperproof, she retrieves her scattered
clothing, dressing with trembling fingers in the chill of the room. He
has left the window open; Mulder, the human radiator. Without the
proximity or desire of his body warmth she shuts it, letting the
Georgetown night remain seen but not heard or felt. Without thinking
she begins to straighten up the room, closing the dresser drawers he
has left open, pushing in the desk chair he insists on pulling out,
rearranging the knickknacks on her dressing table, the ones he always
manages to bump and knock over. Her china elephant has had its poor
trunk glued on three times this year.
She exits through the bathroom, pausing to put on a panty liner and
clean up a little with a cold washrag. She looks at herself in the
mirror, her eyes huge and dark in the ghostly pale of her face. She
looks like a waif, a street gamin, a child who has been hurt and
doesn't understand why, but has become hard through the experience
rather than vulnerable and frightened. She's looked this way for a
long, long time.
Her small bare feet make no noise on the cold, dusty floor as she walks
to the dark kitchen. Lights seem to be her enemy tonight, and she
avoids the refrigerator. She would rather not see anything clearly, not
even last night's eggplant casserole. The wooden cabinets creak as she
opens the doors one by one. Wheat Thins are an acceptable substitute for
the piece missing from her soul. She pulls a store brand cola from the
plastic circle connecting it to its five family members, then sits down
in a kitchen table and begins to eat, leaving all the cabinet doors wide
open. She's reckless tonight.
If she thinks about it, really thinks about it, she can trace the whole
mess back to the Case that Wasn't, three days in Atlantic City chasing
phantom rollerbladers and personal demons in the aftermath of Donnie
Pfaster. The case was an excuse to get out of town while prosecution talks
rumbled through the stale echelons of the FBI. The rollerbladers were
paid athletes promoting a new beachfront casinos. The demons were in her
eyes, her hands, her hair, her mouth. She was afraid to close her eyes
because of the instant replay behind her eyelids. Her hands trembled as
she signed her name or brushed her teeth. There was a tiny wedge of
hair snipped out of the back of her head. Sores burned at the raw,
stretched-out corners of her lips.
Mulder, her lover of one month, never stopped touching her. He rubbed
her back in elevators, held her hand in the streets, massaged her
shoulders at night, kissed her forehead whenever she came close to him.
At the time, she felt that she could never have enough physical
reassurance and love. Sleep was possible only with him curled behind
her. She left the bathroom door open, shared the tiny shower with him,
brushed her teeth with his hand on her back. Someone loved her.
As they lay in her bed on their last morning in the hotel, the feeling
first came over her. Stop touching me. She felt a crawling cramp down
her spine, an urge to wriggle out of his arms and lay alone on
cool hotel sheets. His body seemed stifling and too hot, like some
giant blanket seeking to smother her. She felt him harden behind her,
and a sickness rose in her throat. There was no comfort in his touch,
only the remembrance of what such desire could bring. A bathtub full
of cold water. Her beautiful candles turned menacing against her.
That smile--God, that mad, evil, lusting smile. Pain. A gag and a gun.
Two months is a long time to hate someone you're sleeping with, she
thinks irrationally, knowing that it is not hate but saturation that
drives her from his arms. If he would leave her alone for while, stop
spending his evenings and nights in her home, stop leaving silly love
notes taped to the dishwasher, stop coming up behind her and rubbing
her arms up and down, up and down, while planting cold sticky kisses on
the top of her head. If she could tell him that she doesn't want to be
protected anymore, that she's had enough love. He was so pleased that
she needed him in Atlantic City--why can't he see that that was an anomaly,
a weekend of weakness? He's seen her without armor and thinks that was
Dana, the girl who is really shy and vulnerable. Why doesn't he understand
that Dana doesn't exist anymore?
She tries to remember the last time she voluntarily touched him. In the
hospital in San Francisco? Did she touch him them? She's so good at
lying. She remembers that case, the way she bantered and flirted with
him as if everything was fine, as if his hand on her back didn't make
her want to duck and run. Maybe she wasn't lying. Agent Scully is
allowed to flirt with Agent Mulder. It's lost Dana who doesn't want
Mulder's hands on her ever again.
She puts her head down on the table, resisting the urge to start
hitting it, slowly and relentlessly banging sense into herself. He
loves me. He loves touching me. I love him. She does not cry. That's
already been done. It feels good to be cold. She closes her eyes,
finding her own version of oblivion.
In the grey March morning she finds herself back in her room, tucked
warmly into the middle of the bed. She is alone. Somehow this is not
comforting. The next stupid thing she does to mess up her life--
she's never satisfied with anything she thinks she wants. She wishes
she had someone to make her a pot of coffee. She wants him to get up
and hand her her nice white terrycloth robe, and bring in the metro
section of the paper. She wishes she'd woken up when he carried her to
bed, because then maybe she could have mumbled a sleepy declaration of
love, and maybe he would have smiled at her, and she would have
remembered why she slept with him in the first place. Maybe she would
no longer hear Donnie Pfaster's longing whine in his husky voice.
Maybe she would have been able to kiss him.
The bathroom tiles are cold, and in her lonely dawn she does not find
this masochistically pleasant anymore. The white enamel sink is full of
short brown hairs, the kind that will never really wash away. Mild
irritation is born. Wet towels are crumpled up on the floor by the tub,
amidst puddles of water. She frowns. She reaches over to turn on the
hot water tap. As the room fills with steam, the mirror fogs over,
revealing words scribbled on it: "I love you" She feels anger sweep
from the pit of her stomach to the soles of her feet, then up to flood
her face with color. Fuck him. He can buy the Windex.
An hour later, she opens her front door, looking for her regular
newspaper. Instead, she finds an article about a boy whose cancer was
cured by guardian angels. It's time to be an investigator again, Dana.
As she drives to work, she thinks that there is nothing in the world
she wouldn't do to get away from him for a few days.
***********
rants and existential musings to skepticgirl@yahoo.com
this and more at http://www.dreamwater.com/mcaact/maren.html
Author: Sophia Jirafe
Classification: VA, R for sexual situations
Summary: Intimacy is a narrow path.
Spoilers: Orison, Theef, En Ami. A seventh season
mindset is helpful.
Archive: Freely. A note would be nice.
Disclaimer: When I can surf, I'll claim them as mine.
Don't hold your breath.
Feedback: Yes, please. skepticgirl@yahoo.com
Endless thanks to: The gracious and kind Jintian, for the
beta that completes me.
*************
She thinks that maybe if she just curls herself up tightly
enough he'll forget she's there. Perhaps the cool sheets
will render her invisible, or the firm mattress open into
a woman-shaped crevasse leading straight to the rocky bowels
of the earth. Or maybe she'll just go sit in the bathroom
until he falls asleep, then creep silently back to bed and
position herself as far from his body as she can get.
Maybe he just won't be in the mood tonight.
She tenses, measuring the heat emanating from his still form,
smelling him cautiously, trying to determine his intentions
from the rhythm of his breathing. It's slow, deep, and calm.
He lies on his back as usual, taking up most of her small bed,
legs spread wide and arms at his sides. She contemplates
turning over to see if his face has smoothed out into the mask
of sleep, that false peace that comes over him with the night,
whatever dark dreams lurk behind twitching eyelids. He sleeps
lightly, though, and even her slight movements might pull him
from the thin veil of slumber that she hopes has fallen over him.
She doesn't want that.
Instead she makes a valiant attempt at being both relaxed and
vigilant, willing her body to sleep and her mind to guard
against any surprise attacks. Two nights ago he caught her in
the twilight of consciousness, too sleepy to resist warm strong
hands reaching beneath the thin satin of her nightgown. Tonight
she's wearing rough cotton pajamas, buttoned up tight. It will
take more than pushing up her slip to get past her defenses now.
She probably should have told him how she felt months ago, when this
heavy malaise started. The instant she began to hate the loving
weight of his prisoning hands, she should have looked into his
eyes with tenderness, and told him she was going to go crazy if
he didn't stop touching her. That their first heady kisses have
turned to mundane obligation. That he's had her heart and soul
for years--now she wants her body back.
This isn't healthy, she remembers. She knows, with the part of
her mind that still thinks rationally, that protecting herself from
love is not the action of a normal woman. Swathing herself in cloth
and a don't-touch-me aura are not the most effective ways to deal
with a problem. She's thirty-five, not thirteen.
None of this deters her from lying on the extreme edge of the
bed and praying to God or whoever she believes in this week
that he won't wake up, won't want her, won't expect her to love
him for the muscles of his body and the warmth of his kisses
and the way he snuffles "I love you" into her sensitive ear
just after groaning and trembling and just before collapsing
into oblivion.
This is the eleventh stupid thing that smart women do to mess
up their lives--sex in exchange for intimacy. Twelve: Endurance
for security. Thirteen: Silence in the hope that he'll notice.
Or maybe they're just the stupid things she does to mess up her
lurching, patched-up hurricane of a life.
He stirs.
She grits her teeth, feeling cold anticipation move through her
tensed muscles, fearful blood flowing witlessly in her veins,
seeking a place to hide. Please no. Don't let me have to tell
him tonight. Let the pain wait until I can see him in the light.
I refuse to make the refusal now.
He places his hand on her calf, just below her knee, squeezing
gently. She feels dead and cold. The hand slides its way slowly
up her leg, grazing her outer thigh, setting the hairs on end.
She's ticklish, cruelly so, but does her best to quell the electric
shivers that threaten to betray her. He rests his hand on her hip,
holding the curves he knows so well. She wills him to roll over and
go back to sleep. Or leave the hand where it is, it doesn't matter--
just stop now. Don't make me hurt you.
With passionate swiftness, he molds the whole overwhelming length of
his body around hers; bony knees against her legs, arm wrapped tight
around her waist, heavy hot breath in her hair, his groin warm and
fierce against her. He first rubs the top of her thigh, then
brushes upwards, over her soft flat stomach to cup around her left
breast. He tightens the hold, brushing a thumb over the rebellious
nipple that hardens beneath the cloth of her pajamas. He makes a
shallow, quick thrust against her, as if showing final proof of his
desire. She thinks she's going to be sick.
"I know you're awake," he whispers, the raspy tone of it setting her
teeth on edge. "You were so tired before--did you wait for me?"
She's going to cry. She isn't ready to tell him the truth, that if
staying up all night would have kept him asleep, she would have done
it. She can't nod either, without hating herself. She remains still,
even though she knows silence always means acquiescence with him.
"I thought so," he whispers, and she knows he is smiling. His
ministrations begin in earnest now, his hands slipping into their
familiar routine of caresses, upper body first. He massages her left
shoulder, then slides his hand back around to begin unbuttoning her
shirt, slowly. She fights the urge to grasp his hand in protest. I love
him. I love him. His lotion-soft fingers tiptoe in, drawing those light
circles that she used to love on her stomach, her chest. He feathers
her breasts, pinching her nipples lightly and briefly. He kneads,
massages, caresses. She's afraid she's going to throw up or scream if
he doesn't get his hands off her soon. She repeats her mantra of
distraction. I love him. I love him.
Instead of reading her mind, he pulls her gently onto her back,
propping himself up on his elbow. She keeps her eyes closed, paper
eyelids holding back a thin layer of tears. I love him. He pulls
down at her waistband, taking pants and underwear at once. Tonight she
has no excuse, no illness or early morning autopsy or sore muscles to
keep him on his side of the bed. She never lies well, and especially
not under the sweetest pressure imaginable. What woman on earth would
dissemble in order to deny a lover like hers?
Things are moving faster now, his mouth on various parts of her body a
quick hot brush, leaving little moist patches that freeze her skin in
the cool night air. A few seconds' suction on each breast, a slick
trail dragged down to her pelvis, warm air breathed through the coarse
hair there. She closes her eyes tightly against this hurried seduction,
almost thankful for the rush. The quicker it starts, the quicker it
ends. She braces herself as he parts her thighs, fearing this intimacy.
A tiny miracle--he plants a quick kiss on her soft unfeeling flesh,
just enough to remind her of what it felt like to desire this
man, then moves away in order to get the show going. He takes down his
boxers, pulling them with sudden grace over his feet, then sits back
for a moment. Even in her self-made darkness, she knows what he's
doing. It's an old, old habit of his--to rest on his heels for a
moment, displaying himself before beginning his performance. In a young
man it would have been endearing. In him it verges on insufferable,
stayed only by the fact that she believes he is unaware that he does
it.
Her eyes should be open for this next part, but she keeps them closed,
hoping that perhaps he will mistake her held breath and tense form for
unbearable anticipation. He lies on her full-length, unknowing or
unmindful of the fact that his weight presses her diaphragm until her
breathing is thin and short. She feels him poking around between her
legs, taking forever as usual to find the right spot. She knows what
he's doing now--creasing his brow in frustration with her inconvenient
anatomy. He should have found himself a tall Amazon. The warm, thick
tip brushes her opening, and this is the moment where she should have
taken him in her hands and guided him into her heart and soul, into
love and ecstasy and bottomless bliss. She lies still for another
minute, waiting for him to get it right, half-hoping he will fail and
give up and go to sleep and in the morning be just her friendly partner
with the lewd eye and raunchy jokes again.
He pushes inside unexpectedly, the quick hard jolt almost enough to
wrench a scream from her. She bites her tongue quickly; screaming three
weeks ago brought a phone call from her long-suffering next door
neighbor and two hours of cuddling, apologies, and weak tea.
He knows how to proceed now--slowly, stretching her to accommodate the
width of him. There's probably something medically wrong with her, that
it takes so long to get past the initial pain of penetration, but she's
never been with anyone even approaching his size. Besides, shoemakers'
wives go barefoot, and doctors die young. Or is it doctors' wives? If
so, why is she the one to suffer through what could be any one
of a number of feminine, life-threatening ailments, so that he might
have nightly pleasure and release? And why does she always start to
think of logical arguments and proverbs and the dry cleaning she forgot
yesterday, just as he begins in earnest?
This isn't so bad. She can stand lying here, hands lightly on his
shoulders, legs spread just wide enough, eyes shut tight, while
something that should have been amazing goes on down *there*, in that
place she hardly thinks of as hers anymore. Dull sex, she can take
that. Stop at Sam's tomorrow, get the Jil Sanders suit and the heather
grey DK pants. Oven cleaner--the pot roast last week wreaked havoc.
Start filing the receipts from February. Worry about alien invasion.
Tell Mulder you can't stand it when he touches you.
It appears that something important is occurring in her nether regions.
An explosion is imminent, judging from his short pants and soft grunts.
The jackhammer pace is a dead giveaway too. She listens to him for a
while, removed from herself for a moment, almost enjoying the
secondhand pleasure she can feel in his body. The intensity increases,
and she opens her eyes just in time to see his close, as his thrusts
shudder too deep inside her. She bites her lip against the renewed pain.
Not going to scream. His face is truly beautiful, more relaxed and
abandoned than she ever sees it. She thinks for a moment that her love
for him might be able to survive this physical revulsion, that if she
were imprisoned with nothing but weekly visits separated by glass it
would be the same as it used to be.
A last harsh groan jolts out of him, and then he collapses as
usual, his weight doubled by his limp relaxation. The silence
in the room is a void. She wants him off of her, but knows she
has to wait for the denouement, the finishing touch. A panting
moment later, he struggles up to breathe his customary endearments
into her indifferent ear. Then he rolls off sluggishly, curling
into a ball that takes up most of the double bed. She lies still
for a moment, counting. Forty-six, forty-seven. His snores come
from nowhere, his hands clench convulsively, and his desired
oblivion is upon him.
For just a moment, she considers the idea that he loves her just
as much as she lusts for him--that he puts up with love in exchange
for pleasure, as she endures his touch in order to not be alone.
Dark waters, dangerous thoughts. She doesn't want to wander there
tonight.
Tired doesn't describe the way she feels right now. If she were a
darker person, she would say it was defeat. If she could bring
herself to hate him, she would say she felt used. If she were insane,
she might say she was happy.
She's hungry.
Knowing his slumber is at last tamperproof, she retrieves her scattered
clothing, dressing with trembling fingers in the chill of the room. He
has left the window open; Mulder, the human radiator. Without the
proximity or desire of his body warmth she shuts it, letting the
Georgetown night remain seen but not heard or felt. Without thinking
she begins to straighten up the room, closing the dresser drawers he
has left open, pushing in the desk chair he insists on pulling out,
rearranging the knickknacks on her dressing table, the ones he always
manages to bump and knock over. Her china elephant has had its poor
trunk glued on three times this year.
She exits through the bathroom, pausing to put on a panty liner and
clean up a little with a cold washrag. She looks at herself in the
mirror, her eyes huge and dark in the ghostly pale of her face. She
looks like a waif, a street gamin, a child who has been hurt and
doesn't understand why, but has become hard through the experience
rather than vulnerable and frightened. She's looked this way for a
long, long time.
Her small bare feet make no noise on the cold, dusty floor as she walks
to the dark kitchen. Lights seem to be her enemy tonight, and she
avoids the refrigerator. She would rather not see anything clearly, not
even last night's eggplant casserole. The wooden cabinets creak as she
opens the doors one by one. Wheat Thins are an acceptable substitute for
the piece missing from her soul. She pulls a store brand cola from the
plastic circle connecting it to its five family members, then sits down
in a kitchen table and begins to eat, leaving all the cabinet doors wide
open. She's reckless tonight.
If she thinks about it, really thinks about it, she can trace the whole
mess back to the Case that Wasn't, three days in Atlantic City chasing
phantom rollerbladers and personal demons in the aftermath of Donnie
Pfaster. The case was an excuse to get out of town while prosecution talks
rumbled through the stale echelons of the FBI. The rollerbladers were
paid athletes promoting a new beachfront casinos. The demons were in her
eyes, her hands, her hair, her mouth. She was afraid to close her eyes
because of the instant replay behind her eyelids. Her hands trembled as
she signed her name or brushed her teeth. There was a tiny wedge of
hair snipped out of the back of her head. Sores burned at the raw,
stretched-out corners of her lips.
Mulder, her lover of one month, never stopped touching her. He rubbed
her back in elevators, held her hand in the streets, massaged her
shoulders at night, kissed her forehead whenever she came close to him.
At the time, she felt that she could never have enough physical
reassurance and love. Sleep was possible only with him curled behind
her. She left the bathroom door open, shared the tiny shower with him,
brushed her teeth with his hand on her back. Someone loved her.
As they lay in her bed on their last morning in the hotel, the feeling
first came over her. Stop touching me. She felt a crawling cramp down
her spine, an urge to wriggle out of his arms and lay alone on
cool hotel sheets. His body seemed stifling and too hot, like some
giant blanket seeking to smother her. She felt him harden behind her,
and a sickness rose in her throat. There was no comfort in his touch,
only the remembrance of what such desire could bring. A bathtub full
of cold water. Her beautiful candles turned menacing against her.
That smile--God, that mad, evil, lusting smile. Pain. A gag and a gun.
Two months is a long time to hate someone you're sleeping with, she
thinks irrationally, knowing that it is not hate but saturation that
drives her from his arms. If he would leave her alone for while, stop
spending his evenings and nights in her home, stop leaving silly love
notes taped to the dishwasher, stop coming up behind her and rubbing
her arms up and down, up and down, while planting cold sticky kisses on
the top of her head. If she could tell him that she doesn't want to be
protected anymore, that she's had enough love. He was so pleased that
she needed him in Atlantic City--why can't he see that that was an anomaly,
a weekend of weakness? He's seen her without armor and thinks that was
Dana, the girl who is really shy and vulnerable. Why doesn't he understand
that Dana doesn't exist anymore?
She tries to remember the last time she voluntarily touched him. In the
hospital in San Francisco? Did she touch him them? She's so good at
lying. She remembers that case, the way she bantered and flirted with
him as if everything was fine, as if his hand on her back didn't make
her want to duck and run. Maybe she wasn't lying. Agent Scully is
allowed to flirt with Agent Mulder. It's lost Dana who doesn't want
Mulder's hands on her ever again.
She puts her head down on the table, resisting the urge to start
hitting it, slowly and relentlessly banging sense into herself. He
loves me. He loves touching me. I love him. She does not cry. That's
already been done. It feels good to be cold. She closes her eyes,
finding her own version of oblivion.
In the grey March morning she finds herself back in her room, tucked
warmly into the middle of the bed. She is alone. Somehow this is not
comforting. The next stupid thing she does to mess up her life--
she's never satisfied with anything she thinks she wants. She wishes
she had someone to make her a pot of coffee. She wants him to get up
and hand her her nice white terrycloth robe, and bring in the metro
section of the paper. She wishes she'd woken up when he carried her to
bed, because then maybe she could have mumbled a sleepy declaration of
love, and maybe he would have smiled at her, and she would have
remembered why she slept with him in the first place. Maybe she would
no longer hear Donnie Pfaster's longing whine in his husky voice.
Maybe she would have been able to kiss him.
The bathroom tiles are cold, and in her lonely dawn she does not find
this masochistically pleasant anymore. The white enamel sink is full of
short brown hairs, the kind that will never really wash away. Mild
irritation is born. Wet towels are crumpled up on the floor by the tub,
amidst puddles of water. She frowns. She reaches over to turn on the
hot water tap. As the room fills with steam, the mirror fogs over,
revealing words scribbled on it: "I love you" She feels anger sweep
from the pit of her stomach to the soles of her feet, then up to flood
her face with color. Fuck him. He can buy the Windex.
An hour later, she opens her front door, looking for her regular
newspaper. Instead, she finds an article about a boy whose cancer was
cured by guardian angels. It's time to be an investigator again, Dana.
As she drives to work, she thinks that there is nothing in the world
she wouldn't do to get away from him for a few days.
***********
rants and existential musings to skepticgirl@yahoo.com
this and more at http://www.dreamwater.com/mcaact/maren.html