Only A Fool Would Say That
She likes lab work; it's methodical. There is a veritable rhythm to it, putting slides in, taking slides out, dropping things in, swirling tubes about. It requires thinking, yet requires none at all once the hands have memorized the motions.
It gives her time to think about a thousand different ways to say something without really saying it. He likes to skirt around the actual phrase, afraid she'll bite, perhaps. She should have known that.
It's hard to ignore, though, the intensely pleased smiles over being able to slip her coffee just the way she likes it without any arguments. Pleased. Over coffee.
The self-smiles when he's thinking about, well, she knows about what. Mistakes happen. No reason to dwell on them because it was nice to think about. She wrinkled her nose. It's plainly pathetic that he does hope.
The slow walking behind her, humming absently, still thinking about things that make her want to run away and see if she can't get him moved to a different department, if not hospital. On the other side of the world. Rationality quietly tells her that she will have to look at this behavior for a long time.
Then another voice, a mean, accusing one slips in saying, that somewhere deep in her subconcious, she enjoys it. She would gladly do the same if she did not have such a monumental stick up her ass. The smarter one, the one she likes, says that the former is being foolish. And crass.
So, there are no, 'how about dinner's, or 'are you busy tonight's, or, still worse, 'I love you's for Cameron because only a fool would say that in her books.
Imagine your face,
there is his place,
standing inside his brown shoes.
You do his nine to five;
drag yourself home half alive
and there on the screen,
a man with a dream
I heard it was you,
talkin' 'bout a world
where all is free.
It just couldn't be
and only a fool would say that
Note: Lyrics credit, Steely Dan.