It was a hell of a sight, Monica in the midst of all the dykes, clapping, whooping. Dancing. God, she can dance. Even simple little moves like the shuffle look fluid and pretty when she does them.

I'm headed out of the dance area so that I can watch her more. I hope she and Stephanie will give me another show. There's nothing quite like two feminine women dancing together, and I've never seen anything like them. Stephanie's all long strawberry-blonde hair flying and pale skin flushed at her cheeks, a porcelain little doll. But Monica's bare legs, bare arms, and that magnificent bare back steal every bit of spotlight away from her friend. I wonder if they're lipstick lesbians or if they're bi. I wonder if they're two straight girls who like to experiment. They were twisting and tangling together like they've done it a thousand times, and the way Monica holds her says a lot about their relationship.

They've got something going, something more than friendship. I don't think it's sexual, despite Stephanie kissing her earlier. I think it's history. I think Stephanie is to Monica what Mulder is to me. I pass Stephanie and she slaps me on the back. "Sweet moves, baby." She grins devilishly.

She called me 'baby' and I didn't even punch her in the face, because Monica's right behind her, walking my way but not seeing me at all. Her eyes are moving over the people who are nearest to Stephanie, I see as I glance back. I wonder if there's trouble. Monica looks serious, and her walk is purposeful. But she smiles and her breasts brush my shoulder as she passes me. Her fingers brush by me as well, dangerously low, and catch my hand. She pulls me several feet, back to the dance floor. Oh, God. The Bee Gees. This is not happening.

She stops and turns around, grinning.

I'm shaking my head. "I can't dance to this, Monica." But my smile is going to split my face in half.

She leans and I catch a whiff of eucalyptus leaves, and her lips are so close to my ear that her breath sends chills down my spine. "Sure you can," she says. Her nose is in my hair. "Just follow me."

"No-"

"Look." One of her hands is already on the small of my back; the other is still grasping mine. She's using her height on me. "I bet you'd like to lead," she says. She pulls me in even closer, impossibly close, and once I wrap my brain around the idea that she may be talking about more than dancing, I cling to her like I'm lovesick, which I am. Still, I'm not known to cling. "But give me a shot at it." She pulls back and looks down at my face. "Okay?"

I wonder if she tries to be sexy or if it comes naturally to her. "You like taking charge, Agent Reyes?"

Her face bows, and I think she's going to kiss me, but she only murmurs, "Of you? Yeah."

Her eyes remain fixed on mine, and I've forgotten that we're supposed to be dancing until someone jostles me. "You think you can turn me into Stephanie?" I ask. "You think you can whirl me around and make me look graceful? It's not going to happen. Two left feet here."

"Follow my lead." Monica pushes me away, holding my hand with her fingertips and this is absolutely crazy. I'm not accustomed to being led. I'm not sure I like it. She draws me back in again. "Eye contact. Don't look at the floor. Look at me."

Why would I look at the floor when I can look at her? This is what I ask her, after she turns me - it's weird, being turned - and holds me to her. The look on her face is priceless. She's working her mouth, pressing her lips together and pulling the bottom one in to rub her tongue over it. Her cheeks are a nice pink, and she's so focused on me that I think I'm going to explode if I don't touch her. Why can't this be a slow song? I could run my hands up to her shoulder blades and scrape my fingernails all the way back down.

She pushes me out, turning me and then herself, drawing me back to her. She finally says something. She's off on a whole tangent, talking about a movie. Apparently, she's seen 'Saturday Night Fever' sixteen times and knows every move John Travolta makes. "Every turn of the hip," she says, stepping back to place one hand on her pelvis, gyrating, and pointing at Stephanie, who's several feet away, with the other. Stephanie sees her and breaks away from her own dance partner to do the same. They wag their fingers at each other and smile. This is one of the most hilarious things I've ever seen, and sexy as hell. "Every mop of the brow." She makes a dramatic gesture of wiping her forehead and slinging the sweat away. "Every smooth move." She looks cocky, pulling me to her as she turns. "Every dip of the girl," she says in my ear, and she's somehow manipulating me into this position. She has her hands on my waist and I'm finding myself being arched backwards, but I'm fighting it all the way, chuckling and protesting like the weak person I've become. She's dipped me so far backwards that the people are upside down, and when I think of how we must look, I start laughing uncontrollably.

Monica pulls me to her, but I can't stop giggling. She takes advantage of this and clowns around more, spinning me away from her so that she can do some solo moves. And the more I laugh, the more exaggerated all of these moves become, until I'm laughing so hard that I can't stand straight. Then her arm is around my waist, her hand holding mine tightly, and she's pulling and carrying me through the dance. "Stop," I beg her. My face is fire engine red.

She does, and I lean against her. My chest is still heaving from laughing so hard, and then I'm aware of her lips in my hair. She's kissing my head and holding me. "See how much fun it can be when someone else leads?"

I look up at her, slow motion stupidity, and I know I've been duped by this girl. There's nothing straight about her. Her eyes peer right down into mine, merry, winking. It's clichéd and trite, but I want to look into those eyes every day for the rest of my life. Her hand's on my bare back, where my blouse has ridden up, and her thumb is making lazy patterns on my skin. This is the woman of my dreams and she might even be coming on to me. I'm amazed.

The music has changed, even though I can't remember it changing, and it's about to change again, and Stephanie brushes by. She's singing, and I know it's Sylvester's song about feeling mighty real, and I know Stephanie's twirling around us, and I know there's a young man in her arms, and I know Stephanie's asking to cut in on the dance, but all I feel is Monica holding me greedily to her. All I see is Monica laughing and shaking her head. All I hear is Monica telling Stephanie "no way." I wrap my arms around her.

And the slow song I want begins.

I don't know what it is; I can't remember the title. But I do remember skating around the hardwood floor of the roller rink when I was thirteen years old to this song. I went there every week for one entire summer, just to watch the other girls skating, especially the older ones, the ones that could skate backwards. I remember watching the girls with their boyfriends. I remember the sound of the skates on the floor, the soft flash of disco lights, how the rink went dark at the perimeter, and how I kissed a girl for the first time in that darkness. She was taller than me, a cheerleader. Brunette. Brown eyes.

Monica's smiling. "Are you okay?"

I nod.

"You disappeared there for a minute."

She looks spectacular tonight, in her piece of a blouse and piece of a skirt. Monica's the kind of person who looks different from outfit to outfit. Wearing red makes her look older and more serious, both blue and yellow soften her and make her seem more vulnerable, and she's like a chameleon in black, either hip or all business, depending on the cut of the outfit. And in brown she looks devastating. Brown suede jacket over a beige ribbed cashmere turtleneck. I've seen her in this outfit only once, but it was all I could do to keep my hands off her, even though the circumstances at the time were much too dire for me to have been thinking about sex. I swear, one day I'm going to walk into that basement while Doggett's at lunch and I'm going to push her chair back from her desk and push her chair back and push her chair and push her and push and push and push until I'm inside and she's wrapped tight around me.

"Dana."

She's breathtaking. I don't know who I'm kidding. It doesn't matter if she's gay or bi. She can have anyone in the room and she doesn't even know it. Her complete lack of guile makes her all the more beautiful and all the more wanted.

"Do you need to take a break?"

Yes, I need a break. Feelings are overwhelming me, and I don't know how to deal with them. Monica's looking at me with such gentle concern that I'm not sure I can stand it. I'm not accustomed to such a caring person being up close or in my face or holding me. I pull away from her a bit abruptly. "I need to sit this one out, Monica." I try smiling, but it's more of a grimace.

"Are you okay?"

I nod, but she's the woman of my dreams, and I've waited my entire life for her, and this is too good to be true. I've got to get out of here before I find out that I'll have to love her from afar. She watches me go.

It's air I need, but I head to the kitchen instead, where the alcohol is. I find a woman emptying the refrigerator. She removes a bottle of vodka and a twelve-pack of Heineken to grab something from the back. She places the items on the counter, and even though she's turned away from me, there's no one else here with long, strawberry-blonde hair. "Hi," I say, taking the cold bottle of vodka and pouring myself a shot.

Stephanie stands with a lime in her hand and studies me. "Hi yourself. How ya doin' there?"

"Fine."

Her eyes run all over me, like they've done before, and she proceeds to cut the lime in half. "Look." Stephanie seems to search for words. Here comes the warning. "Monica thinks the world of you, you know." She rummages around in a lower cabinet and pulls out some tequila and a rather large shot glass.

I cut a glance at her and down my shot.

"She's a special girl. I don't want to see her hurt." Stephanie pours salt on her hand, licks, drinks, and bites the lime. She doesn't even flinch, which makes me think that she must drink her tequila this way just for the drama of it.

I pour myself a vodka tonic. I need to be numb, and I need it pretty quickly, so the gin I've nursed all evening won't do, because I can't drink gin very fast. Vodka is a different story. "I won't be getting close enough to hurt her."

She rolls her eyes at me. "If I had a dime for every time I've heard that." Her voice is bitter and her face is hard. She seems to size me up, to be judging whether or not I'm worth her effort. "Have you seen her place?" She waves her arm out. "I mean, really seen it?"

"I've seen most of it."

"Yeah, but have you *seen* it?" Stephanie picks up a small stone statue from the counter. It rests very close to the gift I brought with me that Monica has yet to open. "Well, this is a bad example because I don't know who it's from." She replaces it and picks up a ceramic jar that's nearby. "See this?" I move over to her and look. "A woman who lived near Teotihuacán -" Stephanie slurs the word horribly - "Did this for Monica when she was in the hospital for so long that time." The jar is pretty and simple, blue with little white birds etched in. "There are things like this everywhere." She replaces it and pours another shot.

"When was she in the hospital? What happened?"

She turns to me and touches my arm. She seems to soften a bit. "Jesus. You're in love with her and you don't know a damn thing about her."

I'm not going to acknowledge this.

"She was in an accident when she was seven. She has problems with her back all the time." She repeats her tequila routine. "Damn bum back."

"What sort of accident?"

Stephanie shrugs. "Never would say. You know, the chick's wide open, but there are a couple of things she just won't talk about. Sometimes I think she has a lot of repressed stuff going on." She puts away the tequila, rinses her glass and tosses the lime in the garbage under the sink. "I mean, she's the most together person I've ever known, but she's got some issues she's never dealt with." She stops short while returning the Heineken to the refrigerator and eyes the vodka and then my vodka glass with raised eyebrows. "You finished with this?"

I shake my head, no, and I don't want to ask, but I do. "What kind of issues?"

"This isn't Monica Reyes 101." She reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a Corona. "Look around some. Most of the little knick-knacks and stuff you'll find were made for her by her friends." She smiles. "She has a ton of friends. There are people from here to Mexico that love that woman." Her smile broadens. She looks proud. "You need to check out the wool tapestry hanging in her bedroom - a little blind boy did it for her. There's something about Monica. Everybody wants to give her gifts of love." She nods toward the gift I brought and begins walking away.

"Like the Cheron?"

Stephanie freezes for a split second, then turns back to me. "Yeah, like Marty's wolf. Most of his art was for her."

"He died, right? Motorcycle accident?"

"Yeah. A few months ago. It was bizarre." She's still looking at me, and she takes a step forward. "She didn't tell you, did she?"

"What?"

"Marty died a couple of days before your son was born."

I nod, but I don't understand what she's trying to tell me. "And?"

"It was a huge loss for her." She punctuates this statement with a pause. "Everyone expected her to be at the funeral, and she wasn't there. Everyone expected her to investigate his death, and she didn't."

Ah, I get it. "Because she was with me."

Stephanie nods. "That's right."

"And you hold this against me?"

Stephanie studies me. "Hold it against you? No. Expect you to live up to that kind of devotion? Hell, yeah."

"Why did you need her to look into his death? What happened?"

She shakes her head. "Like I said, this isn't a history lesson here. It's Monica's story to tell. She'll have to tell you." She waves her hand. "All I know is that it was awful and strange, and that he's dead and it shouldn't have happened." She's still staring at me. "You need to be good to her. If you're half as good to her as she is to you, I won't complain. But if you ever hurt her, I'll drive seventeen hours just to kick your ass."

She swigs her Corona and leaves.