She used to hear his voice in exams.
Ideas for paragraphs:
Talk about the line at the end, Syd.
Organizational tips:
You should revise your thesis to mention that.
Supplemental quotes:
Isn't it pretty to think so?
Scratching at her ear, she would wonder if her comm. was still in. Her professor would look up and she would blush, You handed it back to him in the warehouse, he touched your knuckle. And then, How would he know what the essay was on? You're not reading it out loud.
Those were the days she thought about trying a brush pass with the guy in the Dodgers cap at the coffee house. It would be a one-sided thing (pick-pocketing or stealing), but she'd walk away with his headphones and the capacity to drown out Vaughn.
--
The part of her life where she feigns normal, where her German beer comes from a place called Lucky Liquors and she pretends it's the same, that part smudges easily. Vaughn's fingerprints were all over it as quickly as SD-6's were.
--
Senior year of undergrad, her neighbor thought she was an alcoholic. Or an addict. Or a whore. She didn't stay home long enough to read the pamphlets fanned out on her bed. When she got back four days later, they were gone. A balloon with the words "Someone Loves You" stretched out along its surface spent the last of its helium climbing the wall by her desk. She couldn't fault her. Stumbling in at odd hours, looking bloody and beaten or disheveled and glowing-- at the very least, she looked like she had a problem. She did.
If there were a club, some place all cherry wood and deep echoes, a humidor with a bug killer, and the spy world's finest (guns and skills checked at the door), she would tell that story. This room full of laughter and commiseration and Yeah, I fell for my handler, too, we're watching our oldest go through the Farm right now doesn't exist like she pictures it. She keeps the story to herself.
She thinks if she started her own club, she might only let her dad join. She would tell him the new password every week and wonder if he knew how to get there. The first order of business would be a name, something elaborate. The Spy-Person Evil-Haters Club, maybe. And Vaughn could be the Darla to her Alfalfa.
--
The thing about smudges is they can be wiped off.
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She used to have relationships with people. She knew things about them, habits, trivia, things only close friends would notice or know.
Dixon will doodle with a green pen when he has plans after work.
Weiss likes soy chips, but pours them into a Lays bag and refuses to share instead of admitting it.
Will can't watch the ear scene in 'Reservoir Dogs' anymore.
The reliability of their idiosyncrasies comforted her into sleep even quicker than the canned laughter of Nick-at-Nite. She let infomercials have their fair chance last night. Three juicers and a free weight set later, she got up for a morning run.
The things she knew about Vaughn started off in separate work and personal files.
She's recategorized.
Information Possibly Outdated:
Vaughn wears his watch on his left hand and doesn't notice it clinking against the desk when he's writing.
Vaughn, under the aftershave and deodorant and dirt and sweat, always smells like coffee.
Vaughn still laughs at old Popeye cartoons.
Vaughn saves his mashed potatoes for last and will eat them no matter how full he is.
Vaughn takes showers so hot when he's thinking, his back turns Santa Claus red.
New Information:
Vaughn married Lauren. (with a yellow Post-It flag, ISee: Bristow, S.– Disappearance./I)
She remembers a joke about putting things in the "circular file" and has a mental image of shaking her head, left hand slapping her ear, over the garbage can.
--
Her new, (sort of) smudge-free life stares back at her like a photograph fresh from the lab. Everyone has red-eye or a deranged look and when she tries to retake the picture, someone always blinks.
--
Moments, (you know, "moments," she tells herself,) with Vaughn happen like they always do. Regularly. He'll look at her and she'll look at him and instead of the stale feeling of, Will he finally lean in this time? or the Tupperware-stored wave of meeting him in the middle, she wonders if Marshall bought them a wedding gift.
She only lets herself think about starting a kiss when she's alert. If she drifts off thinking about it, she won't want to look anyone in the face for a while. Airplane bathrooms, a bench in the park, any place she's not likely to doze, even as tired as she is. She hears the muted rasp of his stubble against her hand, tastes the mint of his toothpaste under the peanuts he grabbed from the vending machine, feels her knees give a little as she leans into him.
She considers it just long enough to recognize it as a possibility.
--
Tuesday night she changes the channel before she decides she can't live without a broom that cleans the top of her fan blades and has an attachment to do windows. Vinnie Barbarino tricks her into sleep. This is what she dreams:
Weiss lazing at his desk with bad hair and an altered voice, nodding, Welcome back, Miz Bris-tow, pointing her toward the conference room.
A high school yearbook sitting on the table.
Page 16 - a snapshot of Vaughn in hockey gear, standing in the remains of SD-6, the word "Champions" in block letters underneath.
Page 28 – Superlatives. Francie Calfo, "Girl We'd Most Like To Be."
Page 43 – Sark in the rival school's uniform. State Finals (We'll get them next year, guys!)
Page 71 – Transfer students. Will in a polo buttoned up to the neck.
Page 103 – Sydney Bristow – Photo Not Available.
Page 194 – Faculty. Her mom and dad, arguing in the teacher's lounge.
Page 266 – A letter from Dean Sloane.
Scrawled on the back cover – Syd, Don't ever change!!
Wednesday morning she cancels her cable and wonders who was Homecoming Queen.
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She takes a stack of pictures in to Wal-Mart for restoration. Four days later when she picks them up, they tell her this is the best they can do. She should frame them and hang them someplace people can't get very close to, high above the mantle maybe. From that far away, you can't even tell they're flawed.