Fox Mulder was determined. This was the year. It was a new
Millenium (despite what Scully said) and he was resolved to do it.
Each year he convinced himself that he could wait a little longer, put
it off one more day. Not this time, though. Carpe diem, he thought.
Not too long ago, he had stared death in the face and while maybe he
flinched a little bit, he was not conquered. He even felt confident
enough to say the words out loud: "This year, I will send my tax
return in before April 15."
Oh, he had tried before, but one little thing or another - government
conspiracies, switching bodies with someone else, little green men-
was always coming between him and a peaceful evening in the
middle of April. This time, though, was going to be different. No
running to the main postal branch in D.C. at 11:30pm, no begging the
mean lady at the H & R Block office for just a short appointment.
Tonight, he was ready, well almost. There was that one pesky 1099,
which he just could not find. It has to be in here somewhere he
thought for the twentieth time. Yet try as he might, it was nowhere to
be found. This meant he had to look where he had dared not go
before- the closet in his bedroom.
It used to be so much easier to find things, he mused as he turned
away from his desk and crossed the floor to enter his bedroom.
Things that I needed were right where I had left them, stacked in just
the right spot, so I could find them again when needed. Right about
the time that waterbed appeared, however, everything changed. All
his carefully (well maybe not sooo carefully) filed items had been
stored away in the closet in his bedroom and he had dared not enter it
since. Drastic times called for drastic measures, and with all the
courage he could muster, he placed his hand on knob and ever so
gingerly, pulled.
The contents of the closet fell out at his feet with about as much
grace as Eddie Van Blundht, Sr. descending from his attic hiding
spot. There were papers, files, receipts, magazines (professional and
other genres), videos (professional and, well,others).
The sheer mass and breadth of this avalanche which continued to
tumble forward caused Mulder to sink- both in spirit and in body. As
he squatted down to commune even further with the damage set
before him, he swore silently to himself.
He rose to his feet and began to walk away in order to try and make a
plan for how to deal with this latest attack on his carefully
constructed life. As he stepped lightly, picking up a foot here,
hopping over a large pile, there, a small red volume caught his eye.
There, amidst the mess that was his bedroom floor, was "The
Collected Works of e.e. cummings." As he stooped to retrieve it, the
words "God, I haven't looked at this since…" ran through his mind.
"Well since Phoebe gave it to me way back in the "jolly" old days in
England. I wonder if I can find that one I liked." He began to flip
through the pages looking for a sign of his favorite piece. The pages
were practically un-touched since they were first turned 17 years
prior except for one. The very top of the parchment corner was bent
inward to remind him. "Oh, yes. This is it. No subtlety of little cats
feet here," he mused. The title was long and gave little room for
veiled interpretation: " i like my body when it is with your body." He
had to chuckle.
It was a rueful chuckle. The first time he had read the poem so long
ago, it had aroused him with images of touches, kisses, and playful,
physical discoveries. But upon reading it again, he made a
disheartening discovery. The joy of knowing another's body in love
was something he had never truly experienced, not with the giver of
the book he held in his hands, not with anyone. He had known
sensual ecstasy, release, and pleasure, but joy like this writer
described, no, never. The thought saddened and shamed him. It made
him long for the one which he just couldn't cross the gap to reach,
the one who shared his days and his dreams.
Enough ruminating, Mulder, he thought. Time to clean up and on
Monday call the bank for a copy of that 1099 which started this
pathetic soul searching in the first place.
After a take-out meal of Thai which still left a nice tingle in his
mouth, Mulder decided to call it a night. The bedroom clean-up had
taken longer than expected and all those numbers dancing across his
1040 had made him a little landsick. As he tumbled onto his bed, he
realized he had left the e.e. cummings book on his nightstand. No,
don't go there, he chided himself even as he was picking it up and
opening it to the poem in question.
"i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a
thing."
As he closed his eyes, he began to imagine what their first time might
be like- tentative, tender, questioning-much like their first kiss.
"Muscles better and nerves more."
His strength and taut muscles would truly complement the softness of
her. He liked that she didn't look like an emaciated fashion model.
He loved her curves.
"i like its hows."
He already knew so much of her, what she feared, what she believed.
How he longed to know the "hows" of what would bring a ragged
sigh or a soft moan from her lips.
"i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones and the trembling-
firm-smooth ness and which i will again, and again, and again kiss."
His hand had so often guarded, guided her spine. How he wished to
cradle it, to put lips to the precious small of her back, one of the few
places he already called his.
"i like kissing this and that of you."
Like he was mentally composing a shopping list to a gourmet food
store, he catalogued the areas of her body where he wished to put his
mouth. Neck, collarbone, shoulder, breast, waist, soft underbelly, and
further.
"i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and
what-is-it comes over parting flesh."
A gasp actually escaped his lips as he imagined how slick, how warm
she might feel as his long fingers would gently dip into her swelled
folds.
"…And eyes big love-crumbs, and possibly i like the thrill of under
me you so quite new."
How incredible we would be together, he reflected, if only, …if only,
I could give her something more meaningful for her birthday than a
keychain; if I could give her a
happy holiday rather than dragging her through a haunted house on
Christmas Eve. If only I could give her, well,…joy. The very thing I
want for myself I have never given to her.
Feeling rather pitiable, he shut the book, turned out the light and
hoped for sleep.
Of course, his wish was not granted. He tossed, he turned, trying
desperately to forget the images and his currently aroused state. It
was no use. He knew what he really wanted, but he would settle for
the sound of her voice. As he rolled over, picked up the receiver and
hit re-dial, he began to think of some excuse for calling her so late.
She picked up on the first ring.
"Hello," she said rather sleepily.
"Scully, uh…"
"Pink flannels with sheep jumping over fences, Mulder," she dead-
panned from the other line.
He smiled at her perfect response while still trying to think of
something to say.
"Mulder, are you alright? I mean, it's sort of late, even for you, "she
queried.
"Oh, I'm fine," he feigned. "I was just wondering. Scully, do you
like e.e. cummings?"
End.
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