NEW: The Shirt (7/10
Audrey Roget
---------------------------------------------
The Shirt 7/10
DISCLAIMER: see part 1
I’m freezing, trying to hide the fact I’m openly
shivering, soaked to the bone. It’s not working.
Goosebumps appear up and down my arms. And
they’re not the most prominent things popping up. My
silk tee-shirt is almost transparent and clinging to my
skin. Embarrassed, I fold my arms across my chest
and sit on top of the sheltered picnic table. My
favorite shoes are a total loss. Oh, they’re definitely
going on the expense report.
Mulder tries to offer his coat, but I shoot him a look
that would stop a stampeding elephant. I’m not angry
at him. I am furious with myself. First for the
accident. I’ve never been at the wheel in a collision.
That’s usually Mulder’s prerogative. What possessed
me to keep going even as the spring shower became
a monsoon? Then, losing control. Twice. Three
times. Yelling and screaming like.../a hysterical
woman/. As if that were going to solve anything. And
then. My stomach is still in knots. Despite a violent
case of the chills, I can feel the red flush that lingers
on my chest and cheeks.
I could be injured, in shock, but I won’t let Mulder
near enough to check for signs of disorientation or
bruises. I’m sure as hell not up to doing my doctorly
duty to examine him. We got a pretty close
inspection of each others’ tongues a minute ago. I
felt great for a few seconds there. He felt pretty
good, too. But I can’t take comfort in his coat. I need
some distance. Being wrapped in his residual body
heat, his scent, allowing myself the luxury of his
concern - these are not things I can handle right now.
He doesn’t get it. Just sits there looking pouty, like
I’m pissed at him and stubborn for no reason. After a
few minutes of frigid silence interrupted only by the
occasional chattering of teeth, he pushes out a
disgruntled sigh, hops off of the table and jogs back
to the car to retrieve my coat.
Before long, the storm has almost let up entirely, and
evening begins to settle in. The gushing stream that
was merely a drainage ditch is dropping in volume.
The highway patrol apparently told Mulder that there
is a power outage and a number of serious road
mishaps due to the storm. It might be a while before
they can get to us.
There’s no place I’d rather be than a goddamn rest
area in the middle of nowhere, courting pneumonia,
with a man I love desperately but to whom I can’t bear
to say more than two words in succession, without
even an historic archive of People magazine to keep
my over-active mind occupied. And the
aforementioned man, my partner, probably thinking
my nasty attitude is directed at him - for jumping me?
- when the reality is I was on him like wet on water.
Mostly, I’m scared to death it will never happen again,
that I’ve kissed my soulmate for the first and only
time, and I didn’t even have a chance to enjoy it.
God. Five seconds of pure heaven. That sexy curve
of a mouth on mine, electric. One hand tilting my
head up to his, the other pressed over my left breast,
like it knew instinctively where to go, how hard to
squeeze.
###
All in all, not the most congenial two hours I’ve ever
spent in Scully’s presence. Anger and shame fairly
seeped out of her pores. She refused to look at me.
Just grunted when I told her the tow-truck would be
delayed, and again when I flung her coat at her. It’s
nearly dark by the time the rain clouds clear out.
Another hour after that, we finally see headlights.
The driver pulls up alongside the ditch, climbs out,
and shakes his head in disgust. Scully leaves her
perch on the picnic table, pulling her coat tightly
around her. She turns back to me and says quickly,
“I’m sorry I lost it back there.” Back to the Scully cool.
She trots over to the truck to converse with the driver.
I’m dragging my heels, feeling defeated. Not only
have we wasted half a day chasing down a corpse
we’ll probably never get to examine - another piece of
the puzzle hidden from us - but I’ve proved my own
lunacy yet again by jumping my partner.
It’s not like she was squirming to get away,
but...Jesus. Practically all I’ve been thinking about
for the last two hours is how her body felt pressed
against mine. The silkiness of her hair, softness of
her lips, yielding and demanding all at the same time.
The sensual weight of her breast as I lifted and
kneaded it. And /she/ apologized for losing it. Do I
take that to mean she’s sorry for the clinch or the
blow-up afterwards, or - and this just occurs to me
now - for creating an awkward situation? Only sorry,
maybe, for bad timing? - my heart starts making like
Ringo - sorry that, given the immediate
circumstances, we weren’t in the ideal setting to take
things to their logical conclusion? She‘s sure as hell
not giving anything away now, having securely
re-installed the Special Agent Scully public interface
to give the tow-truck driver her AAA number.
The driver is making small talk while the car gets
dragged up out of the muck. “...sure are lucky! Must
notta been goin’ too fast, huh?”
“No,” Scully replies, “the hail was really starting to
come down, so we were crawling. But I didn’t even
think about the car sliding on it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Dangerous stuff alright.” The driver,
whose uniform has “Buck” sewn over the pocket,
looks up as I approach. “Alrighty, y’all can ride in the
cab with me into town. Ready?”
/Town/ is a farming village of fewer than 1,000 souls.
There is one mechanic, whose shop is closed up for
the night. Buck Elam, the truck driver, swears the
garage will be open by six a.m. to check the car out,
make sure it will be safe to drive back to DC. There
is one motel, the Hi-Hill Motor Inn, owned by Elam’s
sister-in-law. The motel is a group of stucco
bungalows scattered in a wooded area, connected by
a winding gravel driveway.
In this one-mechanic, one-motel town, there is but
one motel room available. With one bed. The rest
have been rented to a band of 4-H kids in town to
show their livestock. Fortunately, the cottage given to
us is upwind from the animal trailers.
Scully wraps up details with Buck while I check us in.
Nell Elam apologizes for the lack of space, offering us
the government rate for her best - and only - room
available. She apologizes that there are no roll-away
beds to offer. She’s sure, though, we’ll be very
comfortable. In the Elvis Fantasy Honeymoon Suite.
I think I actually blush as I sign the register, tempted
as hell to put down “Mr. and Mrs. Spooky,” but
remember that this little ditty gets handed in with our
expense report. I grin slightly, picturing the reactions
that might get in accounting. That image is replaced
by Scully’s reaction to my registering the two of us
into a honeymoon suite as Mr. and Mrs. anybody.
Hell, I’m afraid just to tell her about our
accommodations.
When she asks about them as I step out of the office
door, I just point up the hill. She’s rescued our
laptops and briefcases from the car before the truck
dragged the pathetic thing away. Slinging hers over
her shoulder, she mutters, “No time to stop for your
overnight bag, Scully. We’ll be back before dark...”
“Hey, I don’t even carry a toothbrush in my case, like
some people I know. Besides, the lady at the desk
said we’d find everything we need in
the...our...rooms.”
###
We reach the last cottage on the path, the largest
and spiffiest of the dilapidated bunch of them, before
Mulder pulls out his room key. I’m catching a weird
vibe from him and my stomach flops to and fro.
“Uh...Mulder...can I have my key, please? I’m beat.”
Last night’s sleeplessness is catching up with me.
I’m hungry, too, but have absolutely no appetite.
He stops, glances at me quickly, then fixates on the
key in his hand. “It turns out this is the only cottage
available. The Future Farmers of America here have
everything else booked.“ He finally turns his face to
mine, holding up a hand to silence the complaint he
knows is coming. “But I’m sure you’ll appreciate the
historic status of this particular motel.”
“I don’t see any signs saying George Washington
slept here.”
“Oh, no presidents, Scully. But I understand this
particular room is fit for the King.” With that, he flings
open the door and flicks on the overhead light.
Speechless. I was prepared to be pissed off all over
again, but I can’t sustain it in light of the sight before
me. I manage to suppress a smile until we’re inside.
As soon as the door clicks behind us, a silly-sounding
giggle bubbles its way up from somewhere deep
under my ribs. Mulder, for his part, breathes a sigh
that is equal parts relief and awe. Like a pilgrim at
Mecca.
Larger than it seemed from the outside, the room
seems to be almost half bed. It must be two queen or
king-sizers shoved together, made up with black satin
sheets and animal print spreads and pillows. There
is a curved bar near the door, circled by high leather
stools. On the other side of the room sits a long
white leather couch, replete with silver-studs along
the edges. And the pièce de résistance: A portrait of
the King himself - on black velvet - in a heart-shaped
frame hangs just above the headboard, as if blessing
the union of whoever might inhabit it.
“Ho Mama,” Mulder breathes in his best Memphis
drawl.
I snort out another stunned laugh. “What the hell...?”
His lips twitch before speaking. “Legend has it Elvis
slept here some time in the early fifties. When he hit
the big time, the owners cashed in by calling this
place Elvis’ home away from home, and kept a room
open for him at all times.” He begins strolling around
the room, inspecting things. Checks out the
wide-screen TV, sticks his nose into the
complimentary fruit basket.
“Let me guess the rest,“ I venture, laying my case on
the gold-record coffee table. “After his death -” a
teasing glare from Mulder makes me hedge -
“supposed death - the owners turned the room into a
shrine. They get much demand for such a room in
this part of Pennsylvania?”
“Desk attendant said there was a wedding in town on
Saturday. Guess where the happy couple chose to
launch their life of love?” he muses lecherously.
A spirit of fresh consummation lingers in the air. “I
trust they’ve laundered the sheets since then?” I feel
compelled to ask.
He shrugs, takes off his coat and hangs it on a
guitar-shaped coat rack. Somehow, the absolute
absurdity of our surroundings has broken the tension.
I shrug out of my trench and hang it next to his. I
bend down to slip off my shoes, grieving their loss. All
at once, fatigue covers me like a canopy and as I
lean over, I feel light-headed, lose my balance and
wind up on my ass.
Mulder hears me thunk down to the floor, drawing his
attention away from the montage of photographs and
memorabilia along the opposite wall. He sees me
press my head between my knees and rushes over.
“Scully?” He rests a hand on my shoulder.
The ocean roars between my ears.
###
Shit.
My heart is slamming into my ribs.
Maintain, boy.
Focus.
Fuck.
She was injured and it’s just now hitting her. God
dammit, why didn’t I demand she see a doctor?
“Scully, are you going to throw up? Is your vision
blurry?” I palm her forehead anxiously.
She raises her head and I slide my hand down to the
nape of her neck to cradle it. Her hair is still damp
underneath.
“I’m okay...I’m okay...,” she says foggily.
“And yet you choose the zebra skin rug to collapse on
instead of the nice comfy couch,” I mumble.
“I just - lost my balance, I guess. I felt a little
light-headed.”
I think back over the afternoon. Neither of us has
eaten since before leaving D.C. I jump up to grab a
banana out of the basket on the bar. As an
afterthought, I take an apple for myself.
“Good choice.” She curves her lips slightly when I
hand her the fruit and settle on the floor next to her.
“I probably just need the potassium.”
We eat in silence, her focus and my heartrate
normalizing with every bite. Inwardly, I applaud
myself for not gawking at Scully as she devours the
banana. After this afternoon, the old self-control
mechanism is clipping along as it should. Don’t look
at her for too long. Don’t touch her unless absolutely
necessary. Don’t think about the shape of the fruit as
she wraps her full lips around it, looking like she’s
consuming manna from the heavens. We finish our
little picnic and I toss the remains into the trash.
Getting to my feet, I offer a hand to Scully, which she
ignores as she struggles stiffly to stand. She’s
exceeded her daily capacity for allowing herself to
need anyone’s help. Especially mine.
Looking down at her still-damp and stained trousers,
she announces, “Shower. What I need is a shower.
And sleep. Mind if I go first?” I shake my head in
answer, and she turns toward the bathroom. She
starts to slip off her jacket, and stops midway. “Crap,”
she lets out an exasperated sigh.
“What?”
Her back still to me, in a small voice, she says, “I just
remembered I don’t have any other clothes.”
My mind races at the implications. And the heat of
our embrace hits me all over again, flashes through
me, making /me/ momentarily light-headed. There’s
only one answer. I lose my jacket and tie, and free
my shirt from my trousers, glad I thought to pull on a
tee-shirt this morning. “Here.” I come up behind her,
holding out the dress shirt on one hooked finger. “I
can’t guarantee springtime freshness, but at least it’s
dry.”
She swivels her head back to offer a subdued
“thanks” and shuts the door behind her.
###
The bathroom is every bit as outrageous as the main
room. Interesting, considering Elvis bought it in the
bathroom. Oversized (naturally) bathtub with dual
showerheads and built-in water jets, huge fluffy
towels, bright, tropical-themed frescoes on the walls
and ceiling. Blue Bayou, I think. Or Blue Hawaii.
Anyway, there’s a lot of blue. Another goodie basket
sits on the counter, this one filled with tubes of bath
gel and shampoo, loofahs, even toothbrushes and
paste. This is quite a leap up from our usual
accommodations. Normally, we’re lucky to get the
little strip around the bowl that says “sanitized for
your protection.”
I go to hang Mulder’s shirt on the doorknob, but first
close my eyes and hold it to my nose. It’s not
laundry-fresh, but infinitely better. It smells of him, a
faint, warm mix of soap, after-shave, detergent, the
burnt-pop-tart-and-coffee smell of his apartment, the
slight dankness of the FBI basement...and...whatever
indefinable Mulderness that lurks inside his cells. I
open my eyes to the sight of myself in the mirror and
am immediately humbled by the sorry-assed vision:
smudged eye-makeup, frizzy-damp hair, filthy, limp
clothes, my face buried in Mulder’s shirt, as if I were
an Elvis groupie with one of his jumpsuits.
With a sigh of disgust, I ditch the shirt and begin
peeling off my own clothes. Though I had the
foresight to protect my jacket, my tee-shirt is still
damp and sticking to my skin. Same goes for the bra
and briefs underneath. It feels sinfully good to step
out of them and into the hot bathwater. Without
hesitation, I flip the switch on the wall which activates
the bubble jets.
Finally allowing myself to relax, my brain throwing off
alpha waves, my mind wanders. Guess where it
winds up. If I hold my breath, I can feel the electricity
that was in the air around us and passing between
our bodies. Part of me would like to write off that kiss
as spontaneous combustion resulting from our years
of mutual attraction, kindled by the events of a
particularly frustrating day and sparked by a
potentially life-threatening incident. It only makes
sense that, rattled, partners - friends - would grasp
blindly for each other.
Right.
That all sounds logical, until I remember that the car
just wasn’t going that fast. And how many scores of
real traumas have we suffered or narrowly averted
and yet never reacted that way? Our argument this
morning and reconciliation this afternoon must have
affected us more deeply than either of us realized.
There are few, if any places, on earth I feel more
welcomed, more secure, than in Mulder’s embrace.
Some combination of his natural empathy and his
own profound loneliness allows him to open his arms
to me so easily, seeking my warmth even as he offers
his to share. And then there are times, instances
where the chemistry turns on a dime. When the hand
at the small of my back, guiding me through a
doorway glances lower than expected, leaving a trail
of sparks down my spine. Or an unassuming,
comforting hug that should last a few seconds goes
on for a minute or more, causing us to become quiet
and too-aware of our bodies. Then we part, feeling
either that we’ve left something unfinished or as if
we’ve escaped one more treacherous situation by the
skins of our teeth.
I think of today’s session with Karen. How do I
reconcile these internal conflicts? When I’m feeling
loose from the moorings, lost or alone, it’s always
Mulder I want with me. Why am I afraid to ask him for
what he so badly wants to give me? I curse my
neediness, yet don’t much begrudge Mulder his
insecurities. I suppose the tragedies that were visited
upon him so early in life provide obvious explanation,
justification, for them. By contrast, it seems that the
close-knit family life I enjoyed as a child, my parents’
unquestioned, unconditional love, my siblings’ loyalty
which I always took for granted, should have sealed
my security. Not that my family could measure up to
the Nelsons or the Bradys, as Mulder seems to think
it did. For better or worse, I know my determination
to keep even those closest to me from suspecting my
own human fragility is as much a product of genetics
as early training. You don’t have to look any further
than Ahab to confirm that. Or my mother. As warm
and loving as she was and is, it was her nerves of
steel and inner strength kept us together, made us a
family, when Ahab was at sea for months at a time.
Besides, I always had to be tough for Bill and Charlie
to let me tag along. One tear, one shriek of alarm or
any misgivings about our little adventures was all the
excuse they needed to leave me behind. To be
called a crybaby was the ultimate humiliation, second
only to hearing my mother’s voice cautioning them,
“Boys, you play nicely with Dana and don’t be too
rough. Remember, she’s a /girl/.” God, those words
and their implications have haunted me my whole life.
I wonder sometimes if I chose pathology sheerly for
the shock value. Secretly, I love the looks of disgust
and surprise I still get from people when I tell them
what I do, knowing they’re thinking - ‘but you’re a girl!’
It occurs to me that this journey Mulder and I are on
has flung open those secure-seeming gates, leaving
me vulnerable, making me needy. But the idea of
returning to some other, idealized existence, where
safety, security and blind rationalism are the walls
that hold out evidence of deeper and darker truths, of
miracles and secrets of the soul, no longer holds
much appeal for me. I’m a richer person for traveling
this road, that is a certainty, though one I am often
hard-pressed to argue or explain, sometimes even to
myself. I only wish that those I hold most dear
weren’t subject to the grief that befalls me. It just
seems horribly selfish to feel I’ve profited somehow
from the pain of others, even if the pain is mine, too.
Perhaps, ultimately, this is what keeps Mulder and
me from becoming lovers. Ironic, isn’t it, that the fear
of harming each other surpasses even the fear of our
own heartache?
Any of it.
All of it.
On some level, I’m fairly certain that Mulder knows I
love him, and that he loves me. But if we say
nothing, we don’t have to deal with those feelings in
the open. Neither of us has to risk being wrong.
Despite the continued internal conflict, my body has
responded to the magic of the warm, frothing water.
Groggily, I haul myself out of the tub and dry off, then
slip on Mulder’s shirt. It’s comically oversized, the
tails practically touching my knees. A little thrill goes
through me, feeling the softness of the fabric.
Allowing myself the comfort of being surrounded by
Mulder that I denied earlier, I try to convince myself
that our kiss meant nothing. I rub my hair with
another towel and rinse out my underwear in the sink,
hanging them out of the way on the top rung of the
towel rack to dry. Mental note: From now on,
/always/ carry spares in the briefcase.
When I come out of the bathroom, Mulder is sprawled
on the sofa, channel surfing, the remains of another
banana and some grapes on the coffee table. He
glances up at me, watches my progress across the
room for a few seconds before going back to the TV.
“All yours,” I announce.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, then addresses the tube,
“fucking Yankees. They’re gonna break my heart this
year. I know it already.”
###
A cloud of steam precedes Scully out of the
bathroom. She shakes out her hair, looking scrubbed
and refreshed. Seeing her in the shirt I offered to
her makes me buzz pleasantly all over, though it
reveals just a tiny glimpse of carved ivory thigh.
“All yours,” she tells me, meaning the bathroom, but
given that I’m trying not to think about her bare legs, I
am momentarily confused.
“Thanks,” I finally say.
I wonder if she knows that’s my favorite shirt. I
wouldn’t give it up to anyone but her. But then, it
achieved favored status only because she once said
she liked it. Actually, what she said was, “Nice shirt,
Mulder,” giving me one of those analytical appraisals
over the rims of her glasses. It was clear she was
thinking a lot more than she’d ever say. And that one
phrase was enough to spark a month’s worth of
fantasies, most of which started with that phrase and
progressed to one or the other of us destroying it in a
frenzy to rip it off me. In any case, I wear it an
average of 1.48 times per week, depending on how
often the laundry gets done. Good thing I did a load
on Saturday, or I wouldn’t be gawking at the way
Scully’s auburn hair glows against the collar.
I roll off the sofa and lope into the can. As I open my
fly, I remember sickly that I didn’t think to throw in any
boxers when I washed the shirts. This morning, the
red Speedos seemed a better solution than running
shorts. Now I’m glad I didn’t go with option three:
free and breezy. If my tee-shirt were a little longer, or
the trunks any color but red...fuck it. I’ll sleep in my
pants. Not like it’s the first time.
When I come out, Scully is checking out the
memorabilia wall.
“Do you think they’d miss this picture of Presley and
Nixon?” I ask, pointing over her shoulder.
“Thinking of taking home a souvenir?” she arches a
brow at me.
“Well, I was thinking it would look great on the
bulletin board alongside the photo of Carter shaking
hands with an alien,” I reply.
She chuckles softly. “I must be tired,” she says
glancing up at me, “I thought that was funny.” She
punches me lightly on the shoulder and walks around
to the far side of the bed. Scully pulls back the
covers and makes herself comfortable. I envy those
satin sheets as she slides her body in against them.
“I hate to admit it, but this place keeps getting better
and better. Almost worth explaining it on our expense
report.” She is suddenly silent, then utters, “Oh My
God. Mulder...did you see this?” she demands.
“Huh?” I swivel my head around to her, then follow
her gaze upward.
“There is a mirror. Over the bed.” She sounds
amused behind the shock. It’s centered over the bed,
outlined with two rows of tiny stage lights. I spy what
looks to be a dimmer switch on the end table. Sure
enough, the brightness can be adjusted from low and
smoky to Disneyland Main Street Parade.
“Come on, Scully, tell me this doesn’t turn you on,” I
tease, then flop down to get the full effect. We
haven’t talked about sleeping arrangements. The
bed is gigantic, there isn’t much danger in sharing it.
Or there wouldn’t be, if that little scene in the car had
never happened.
Fatigue suddenly washes over me. Unconsciously,
my lungs let go a weary sigh.
“See what I mean about this place? The bed alone is
worth it,“ Scully murmurs, near sleep.
“Yeah,” I grunt, pulling myself up, “but the couch feels
just like home.”
“You can’t be serious,” she says, her eyes flying
open.
“It’s all yours, Scully.”
“Mulder, don’t be ridiculous. You need to get some
real sleep. I promise to keep to my acre.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” What else can I do, but
offer weak innuendo? “Seriously, I’ll sleep better on
the sofa.” My body practically rebels at the words,
crying out for the sleek sheets, soft pillows and cozy
blankets, and...the possibility of...Scully’s warm figure
alongside mine.
I resume my place on the couch, and soon I hear
Scully’s breathing deepen. Lazily flipping channels, I
come across some soft porn on the cable. Not with
Scully in the same room. Shit. Maybe there’s a
‘Lassie’ rerun somewhere. Women’s beach volleyball
championship. Aerosmith video. Baywatch.
Partridge Family. God, I used to lust after Lori. Her
and the short-skirted Brady girls. Larry King
interviewing Julianne Moore. The resemblance is too
much. I could hardly sit all the way through that last
movie of hers without running to the men’s room.
She really should have gotten the Oscar for that one.
Jesus. Needless to say, I bought the video the first
day it was out. Even Emeril’s against me tonight.
Romantic dinner for two - oysters and chocolate
mousse. Scully loves chocolate mousse. I give up. I
flip the TV off and scooch down, trying to get
comfortable.
Wherever the King is, I know he wouldn’t approve of
this sofa. For one thing, it obviously doesn’t get used
much - the leather is stiff and cracked in places,
scraping my bare arms when I roll over. I close my
eyes, but the lingering TV teases are nothing
compared to what my mind’s own screening room
spools out behind my eyelids. The frenzied clinch in
the car. The sight of her in /my/ shirt. The simple but
scorching peck on the cheek she bestowed on me
this morning before rushing out of our office. Strong,
soft, bare arms emerging from her coat. Confident
hands snatching at a bunch of flowers mid-air. Those
same hands on my shoulder, over my heart. Rather
than getting me worked up, however, these visions
somehow relax me, bring her essence closer. I start
to doze, but jerk awake at the unbidden memory of
last night’s shower fantasy. Crap. I have to get past
this. Eventually, the kids at the Academy will stop
referring to me as ‘Spooky’ and give me a new
nickname: ‘Blue Balls.’
Scully shifts around in her sleep. It’s kind of chilly in
here. Maybe I should pull a quilt off the bed. The
bed. It looked so comfy. I get up slowly and pad
silently over to the side opposite Scully. She’s facing
the other way. It’s dark, but I can see how
possessively she pulls the covers up around her.
Well, who wants a blanket hog anyway? I do. So
much it hurts. There’s no way to slip a blanket off
without waking her up. The pillows call my name.
She groans delicately in her sleep and rolls back
toward me. I freeze until she settles down again.
God, she is lovely. When she sleeps, her face takes
on an ethereal quality, as if she were roaming the
heavens in her dreams.
Hell, I’m going to be thinking about her whether I’m
on the couch, on the bed, or curled up on the porch.
Maybe I’ll just lie down here and watch her sleep for a
little while. I’ll go back to the couch before she wakes
up. Staying close to the edge of the mattress, I
carefully inch my way under the top spread, sinking
quietly into the pillows. Scully is a good three feet
away. A safe distance from which to admire her.
/She is so beautiful/ is my last conscious thought.
I come awake with a start a couple of hours later. I
don’t know if I have been dreaming. But what I
awake to is more surreal than anything my
subconscious could have created. We are side by
side, facing, in the middle of the bed. Scully’s
forehead rests against my chest, her hair obscuring
her face. My arm is closed around her, our legs
entwined.
END 7/10
_________________________________________________________
DO YOU YAHOO!?
Get your free @yahoo.com address at http://mail.yahoo.com
---------------------------------------------
To be removed from the list, send email to
xfcreativ...@pnx.com with one word:
LEAVE in the body of the message.