Five minutes. If I don't leave in five minutes, I'll be late for my shift. Someone else will get my tables if I'm late, and that can't happen. I need the money. A belligerent client spent forty-five minutes screaming at me over his contract, because he insisted on the "no documentation" mortgage agreement that the company no longer offers. The assistant receptionist position has proven more difficult than I thought it would be. Thank God the office closes at five, so I could just tell him "sorry, we're closing, you'll have to call Monday" and scurry away to the teeny closet of a restroom to switch uniforms. As soon as the door locks behind me, I kick off the borrowed pumps, shimmy out of my plain green skirt from goodwill, and dig through my duffle bag for the wrinkled black pants and starched-stiff button-up shirt. After a quick backward glance in the mirror on the way out, a flash of very different days comes to mind. I remember a baby-faced young woman with shoulder-length red hair dressed awkwardly in a business suit on her first day of work as an FBI agent. She studied her reflection in the mirror that morning nervously, wondering if she looked immature or professional. If only I knew how that one day would change everything.
---
Boston traffic is horrendous—you think I'd learn after seven months that it's impossible to transverse the entire city on a bus during rush hour in only thirty minutes. I'm late, meaning I'll have to work until closing, which is 1 a.m. on Saturdays. Work began in the mortgage office before eight this morning; so it's going to be quite a long day. The manager hurls me a peeved glare when I finally clock in and I pray I'm not fired. Landing a waitress job at the classy Silvertone downtown is no easy feat; I had to embellish my résumé significantly to win the honor. Surveying the throng of the city's elite waiting impatiently to be seated tires me; I've come to know these types well. They'll smile sweetly as I scribble their orders of champagne and duck with wine sauce on my notepad, but as soon as I move toward the kitchen they'll whisper, "Poor woman; to have that job at her age." Sometimes I just want to shake them and say, "Don't you know the world's coming to an end?" I wish they knew who I really am, or was.
"Lauren, you're late!" Ben, one of the waiters, snaps. I'm embarrassed to realize I've been standing near the entryway zoning out for at least a couple of minutes. Damn, I'd give my soul for a dinner break. "I already started a table for you. Booth in the far corner," he sighs in exasperation.
"Sorry," I mumble, tying the apron as I walk. Fortunately my first party of the evening is a pleasant elderly couple who don't seem demanding or condescending. Maybe it's a good sign for the remainder of the night that karma finally plans to take pity on me. While I take drink orders and attempt to recite the specials, I notice that the older man seems quite pale but refrain from asking him if he's all right. When I return, however, it's clear that he is not.
"Are you feeling okay, sir?" I ask hesitantly, "Can I bring something for you?"
He only shakes his head, but his wife responds, "He'll be just fine. He gets bad heartburn sometimes, but it'll pass in a minute or so. Always does."
Suddenly the man grips his left shoulder, sucking in his breath.
"Sir, can you breathe? Do you feel pressure in your chest? Light-headedness?"
He nods shakily before his face contorts in pain.
"Call an ambulance!" I yell to someone fiddling with a cell phone at the table behind us.
Gripping the man by the underarms, I gingerly ease him to the floor until he's lying flat and check his pulse. Already his wife is hysterical.
"Ma'am, I need you to calm down. Panicking won't help him. What's your name?" I ask as I open her husband's shirt.
"Esther," she manages through her tears, "My husband's name is Jim. Please…please help him. I can't live without him."
I don't respond, because I don't know how.
"Just relax, Jim. You're going to be fine. Take deep breaths for me," I tell him, marveling at how quickly the instinct comes back to me. Seconds later, he's gone. No pulse. I feel the eyes of a large crowd gathering behind me as I find the notch of his breastbone with my fingers and begin the compressions.
---
The autumn air gives me a chill when I step off the night bus. A little white cloud puffs in front of my lips, and I fold my arms close to my body to keep warm. I'll have to ask Mulder if we can afford to buy jackets soon.
I feel strange tonight—almost hollow, if that makes any sense. For a long time, I haven't thought about missing medicine, but I do. I really do. Tonight I might've saved someone's life. He was alive when the paramedics arrived, anyway. Afterward, my coworkers peered at me strangely as if they had no idea what to make of me. It's dangerous, what I did. Mulder and I are always extremely careful about drawing attention to ourselves. He'll probably worry when I tell him, but I'll just have to explain that I didn't have another choice and leave it at that.
When I cross the street, there he stands on the corner, waiting for me just like always, bouncing and rubbing his arms in the billowing wind. He walks down the street from the bus stop with me every night; and if for some reason he's later than me, I meet him at the station and we take the bus together. Southie isn't the safest neighborhood to say the least, but luckily we don't live in the projects (although our apartment isn't much better). He smiles warmly when he sees me, opening his arms for an embrace to help combat the cold. Since he finished the workday he's had time to change into clean sweats, but he still smells like paint thinner. It hurts me to think that Fox Mulder paints houses for a living.
"I missed you," he says as I step into his arms. Every day he tells me that, but it doesn't make it any less sincere. I live for this; coming home to him every night. Honestly it's all worth it. I would rather share this life with him than go back to my former world alone. We help each other get through the hard days—the days when we can only afford one bag of popcorn to serve as three meals, the days when we really miss home.
"Did you have a good day?" I ask as we walk arm-in-arm.
"I guess so," he replies, "Pretty much the same as every day, whether that's good or bad. No, wait…I learned the difference between 'enchant' and 'grapemist' today. Last year, I would've called both purple. So that's something."
"I'm glad," I chuckle.
"What about you? How was work?" he asks.
"Long," I tell him, "I want to forget it."
"Done," he replies with a gleam in his eyes.
---
The one bedroom/one bath apartment we share is as homey as we could make it with sparse garage sale furniture, but it looks beautiful to me. Each time I walk through the door, I feel both relieved and comforted to be home. As we trudge up four flights of stairs, my stomach rumbles in anticipation of what sort of treat Mulder has for me. Every day it's something new: a Hershey bar or a warm muffin or a chocolate chip cookie. We've set aside some spare change in a tin can on the table for splurge money, and Mulder spends far too much of it on me.
The savory aroma envelopes us the second we step inside, and my heart nearly melts when I see the stove. Grilled cheese! Mulder made me grilled cheese. I cut the sandwich in two and make him eat half. Wrapped in a blanket on the living room floor, we listen to the radio while devouring our gooey feast. With a contented sigh, feeling warm all over at last, I curl into the crook of Mulder's arm while Neil Young serenades us with "Don't Let it Bring You Down." Soon my eyelids start to droop, but Mulder taps my nose to keep me awake.
"Hey Lauren," he says.
Hearing him address me by that name still throws me off a bit, but we made a pact to use our new names all the time, even when we're alone. That way we're less likely to slip up in public.
"Yeah?" I yawn.
"How 'bout a night out next Friday? We both get off early enough."
"We can't afford it," I reply with my broken record response. I don't have to hear the question anymore, really.
"Wrong. When will you ever learn to accept extreme possibilities?"
I know him so well I can hear the goofy look on his face.
"Huh?"
"I got a bonus check today for my six month anniversary with the company, and I'm taking you out to dinner to celebrate."
"That's wonderful! But we need furniture, Will. And winter coats. Let's save it."
"It's two hundred dollars! We can save some of it, but I want to treat my wife to a nice evening. What's wrong with that?"
"Okay," I smile. He won't have it any other way, so I don't push it. Little has changed in regards to our relationship; we still have the ying and yang that worked so well over the years: the swing between fanciful and practical, creating a balance. Ever since Mulder turned out to be right about aliens, I decided to start giving him the upper hand more often. What else can I say? Our life revolves around simple pleasures, and already I can't wait until next weekend.