I've been day dreaming again. It doesn't take much to start it. This
time he touched my wrist. Accidentally. Maybe. Oh, who knows?
Anyway, I've gotten to where I can hide my response when he does that.
Which is often by the way. Does that mean anything? Does he know what
I'm thinking? Is toying with me? Damn, I'm starting to sound like a
little girl. Maybe I should slip him a note in homeroom, you know, with
little boxes, check yes if you like me, no if you don't.
The first casual touch made me jump up out of the chair I was sitting
in. He just laughed and told me to relax. Yeah. Riiiiggghhht. Relax.
Relax, no. Learn to hide it, yes. I have to.
I don't know what I'm thinking. He's such an unbalanced guy. I mean,
one minute he's running his trap about an X-file, and the next he's
moved on to some crazy movie he watched on late-night TV the night
before, when he couldn't sleep, or the last Knicks game. He's so... wrong
for me. I like order. He's chaos. I mean, I've seen his fucking
apartment. If it looks like that, what would his brain look like if I
could see inside?
But the more I try to be logical, tell myself what's so wrong about this
situation, I just realize more and more what feels so right. Something
in that jumble of a man calls to something in me. I know what I'm here
to do, what I'm supposed to do, what I'm being paid to do, but I can't
get past... him. I can't work because he's always there. He's the point
of this assignment, but the point is my biggest obstacle. I can only
focus on what I'm feeling. I need to be detached, cool, but it's
getting so hard to do. I want to be near him and know him for who he
is, not just for some surveillance assignment.
The smoking man wants his reports on a regular basis. Bastard. I tell
him what I know, which is not a lot, other than inconsequential personal
info I've gathered. Mulder's favorite Chinese takeout place and what he
orders most often. Mulder's new obsessions, what he's reading and what
he's investigating for personal reasons. What Mulder wore to work last
Tuesday. What his answering machine says. The screensaver on his
computer. His... OK, so this is sad. I can't believe I know all this. I
can't tell the smoker these things. It's not what he wants. Besides,
he'd figure out what I'm feeling. And that can't happen. I won't let
him have that part of me too. He can take what he wants from me in
every other respect, just not my mind. Or my heart.
It was easier to tell myself that Mulder doesn't give a flying fuck for
me when he was being a pain in the ass. Not to mention, by the way, it
was easier to tell myself he wasn't as attractive as I thought he was.
But now, I don't know. He's changed. Opened up to me a bit or
something. So, I'm back to hoping. I swear, this is pathetic.
I guess since he knows I killed to protect him, I'm trustworthy now.
Well, at least he trusts me enough to talk to me. For him, that's a big
step. He can actually share an opinion or a joke with me. And of
course, I've taken to fawning over him and staring at him admiringly
even more. The sick part is, I can do it so easily—it's not so much
of an act anymore.
It just makes my life so much harder. How can something that makes you
so happy make you so sad at the same time? The first time he truly
acknowledged me—I mean talked to me for no specific reason at all,
just to tell a bad joke—I almost flirted with him. A coy remark
almost followed my laughter (of course I laughed profusely, even though
it was a shitty joke). I had to check myself mid-sentence. He kind of
stared at me strangely, shrugged, and went on talking. But when he did
it again later that day, I couldn't stop the retort from coming all the
way out, sexual innuendo and all. He just smiled at me—smugly, might
I add—said, "Good one, Alex," and put his hand on my shoulder, and
squeezed slightly. That's when I jumped up. Like an idiot. Humph.
Relax. Yeah.
I went home that night and danced around my apartment, talking to
myself, saying that it WAS possible. I was going to have Fox Mulder;
I'd have him begging... But I stopped as I thought of something. No, I
couldn't have Mulder. I had a job to do, and starting a relationship
with the job wasn't in the itinerary.
And that's when the dreams started. They could hit at anytime. In my
sleep. At my desk. In the line at the bank. Some were hot, sweaty,
fast fuck dreams, leaving my breath shallow and my face red. I think
people thought I was having a heart attack or something. Other dreams
were sweet, slow, drawn-out devastation. All shared one element: Mulder
and I were together and happy.
So now when I see him, my palms start to sweat and I feel dizzy. I see
all my dreams in his eyes. (I think of corny things like that now.)
And it is such a high. Who needs alcohol? Being with Mulder is worse
than drinking a bottle of Stoli. I can barely walk after I see him.
Damnit! I wish I could tell him about my dreams. I'm not usually like
this—I usually get what I want, when the opportunity is there. If I
could, I'd let him know how good we'd be together. Show him what I'm
feeling. Jesus, if I could just grab him and kiss those full pouty
lips... Make him feel what I know—that we were meant for each other.
But I can't. I just... can't. We'd both get in trouble. So, I disguise
my feelings. Act as if he's just a coworker, nothing more. Say hi as
he strolls by and secretly hope he's noticing me, too.
Crush
by Susan
when you stand
beside me
my head
spins—
i am drunk
with your nearness.
i long to tell you
how much i think of you,
what i dream about you,
what we'd be like together,
how well our hands would fit,
how close our bodies would fit
together.
but i just say hi and hope you speak.
—from my poetry journal, dated april 1998, written from personal experience (or lack thereof)
