It was a Thursday
evening in Rosario. The heavy Argentinean sun was gliding low over the waters
of the great Rio Parana. Its gently undulating
waters were painted with a hundred different shades of gold, glistening as if
God himself had taken a brush to them.
I was tired from a
long day of work and ready for a relaxing night alone. Rush hour traffic
be damned, I left the lab at 6:00 in order to make it home
before dark. Driving west, I had the setting sun in my eyes, but the only
sunglasses I could find in my glove box were blue-tinted, wire-rimmed
shades. I had to smile as I slipped them on. They reminded me of
all the things I love about life in this beautiful city. Stylishly
current, yet drawn with classical lines; technologically progressive, yet
steeped in history; proud and independent, yet heart-achingly graceful. I
turned off my phone and turned up the music, loud enough to drown out anything
that might seek to intrude. This night was for me.
When I arrived
home, there was a large basket waiting on my doorstep. I looked around
nervously, wondering if any of my neighbors were watching me, as I stood there
immobilized by shock. Surely my heart was pounding loud enough to be
heard across the quiet tree-lined street. I paused for a moment before
kneeling down to inspect the elegantly wrapped delivery.
The card attached
read, "Will you join me for a drink tonight?" It was unsigned,
of course. I could feel a blush rising to color my pale cheeks. He
wanted nothing more than for me to log on to the Internet and talk. Totally
harmless, I told myself. Sure, denial is fun in small quantities.
I pulled aside the
cellophane to look inside. There was a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, some
crackers, various cheeses, fruits, and a CD labeled "You know you want to.
. ." One of my eyebrows arched in surprise as I lifted the bottle
out for inspection. Silver Oak, 1997. I
murmured, "Very nice, Mulder."
He hates it when I
call him that, of course. But his words, his ideas, and his wit -- they
all spoke to me of the fictional character Fox Mulder,
from that show we both love, in some inexplicable way. It is why I opened
up to him so readily, despite the daunting artificial distance of on-line
conversations. Something in me trusted him instinctively.
Thus far, I have
not regretted it. He is incredibly generous, and I don't mean just this
expensive bottle of wine in my hand. He gives of himself in ways I have
never before experienced; yet he expects nothing in return, except my
friendship.
We edit and analyze
each other's writing. I laughingly told him once that the best way to
describe it is "the epitome of unhealthy psychotherapy." He
listens to me rant and rave about my life and my fiction, he helps me dig
beneath my knee-jerk reactions, and he makes me examine every angle more deeply
than I would otherwise. Whether I am working on a professional report,
original fiction, or our favorite escapist activity -- fanfic,
he challenges me to confront my demons, and he introduces me to constellations
in the creative heavens that I have never before considered.
When he listens to
me, he makes me feel like I am the most important, most beautiful, most
intelligent and insightful person in the world. But all the while, I must
pretend he has no effect on me whatsoever.
I hope I make him
feel even a fraction of what he brings to my life, but I suppose I will never
know. He, too, plays his cards pretty close to his chest. It is
part of our unspoken agreement to protect this delicately balanced relationship
from any kind of upheaval.
Some days I mourn
the fact that the bond we share will never go further than an on-line
friendship. In the years we have known each other,
we have vigilantly guarded the invisible line over which neither of us is
allowed to step. Some days we dance pretty close to it, but we always
mind our boundaries.
I carried the
basket into the kitchen and set it down on the counter. After I popped
the CD in the stereo, I set about decanting the wine. My hand stilled,
just as I was reaching for a glass in the cupboard, when I heard the first
strains of Albinioni's Adagio in G minor. I
closed my eyes. It's haunting melody transported
me into another world.
The first sip of
wine was exquisite. The bouquet reminded me of dark-paneled libraries and
hushed voices. I set it aside to breathe. Slipping off my shoes and
my slacks, I walked into the bathroom and started running a bath. Vanilla
scented bubbles rose quickly. I adjusted the temperature and turned away.
Thirty minutes later,
I was ensconced in a thick terry cloth robe, looking out my balcony at the
rising moon, with a glass of the Silver Oak in hand. I wonder where he is
tonight. He travels a great deal, that much I know. Sometimes, he even
finds his way to my part of the world. We joke
about meeting for a drink whenever he is in nearby, but we would never. .
.
Never say never, I reminded myself with a sleepy smile.
I usually log on
much later, but if I did not try to reach him now, I might fall asleep without
expressing my thanks. I felt so serene.
He signed on within
seconds of me.
M: What do
you know about MOOSE?
So much for relaxed conversation over a glass of wine. He was clearly in project mode. I rolled my eyes and
rapidly typed a reply.
S: You mean
Meta-Object Operating System Environment? It's an operating system being
developed by computer scientists in the US, intended to make the Internet more secure and reliable.
It's based in part on robust object calculus, a type of calculus tailored to
modeling distributed objects. Very cutting-edge math.
Why do you ask?
No reply.
After a moment, I
typed.
S: Tell me
you aren't hanging out with Lone Gunmen types again. Am I gonna have to kick your ass?
M: No, I'm
just sitting here, stunned. My God, I would never have made that synaptic
leap! I was thinking about large mammals with antlers in the
wilderness. You know? Moose on the loose?
S: Oh. LOL. All caps, so I assumed you meant the
acronym. (By the way, hello.)
M: Your brain
works in the most fascinating way. (And hello to you, too.)
S:
Fascinating strange or fascinating cool?
M: Definitely
cool.
S: Well,
don't be too impressed. Advanced mathematics is not my field. If you
ask me about chaperone proteins and thermotolerance,
that would be another matter. . .but I don't want to
talk about work. Ugh! I had a long, counterproductive day at the
lab and all I want to do is escape tonight.
M: Scully,
what're you wearing?
S: LOL.
You don't want to know, Mulder. It would
inflame you beyond all reason. *eye roll* Tell
me, instead, why you're musing on moose, of all things, on this fine
evening.
M: There's a
website called Mulder's Refuge. Have you heard
of it? They are having a fanfic writing
challenge. The subject is moose.
S: Mulder's Refuge? The Mulder Torture fanfic people?
ROTFL
M: It's not
what it seems.
S: You surf
that site, Mulder? I do believe you have taken
yourself to new depths of masochism.
M: First of
all, don't call me Mulder. It's only if I
identify with that fictional character that so-called MT or Mulder
Torture becomes a masochistic interest. Second, it's not about torture in
the "bad" sense of that word.
S: Is there
is such a thing as "good torture"?
M: Hey,
now. Of course, baby. Care to let me show you?
S: "Baby
me and you'll be peeing through a catheter."
M: Duly
noted. LOL.
S: One of
these days we are going to have to discuss why you go to so many of these
websites.
M: One of
these days, sure. For now, I want you to write a moose fanfic story with me. Will you do me that
honor? It would be fun to write together. The deadline is today, so
we have two hours to come up with something. . .
S: M, I love
the Mulder's Refuge people. I really do.
I've been to the site and marveled at the talent. And MT fanfic is an occasional guilty pleasure of mine. . .
M: It
is? *smirk*
S: OK, I
admit I actually write it. And I know that MT isn't really about hurting Mulder. (I like the part where Scully fixes him
afterwards.) And I even hang out at Mulder's
Refuge now and then. . .
M: I sense a
"but" coming.
S: But let's
get real! We cannot write a fanfic story in two
hours. Not one that would be worthy of submitting to that site.
M: Why
not? All we need is 10 to 15K.
S: Speak to
me in English, please.
M: About
2,000 words, give or take. A cupcake, I
swear.
S: lol @ cupcake -- that's 1000 words an hour, 16.67 words a
minute!
M: But it's fanfic! Pre-existing well-developed
characters. It ought to be easier than you think. Come on,
you know you want to . . .
S: Speaking
of "You know you want to . . .", thank you
for the gift basket and the music CD. I love it.
M: Did you
try the wine?
S: I am on my
second glass right now. You have impeccable taste, as always. And
the music is still going in the background.
M: I'm
drinking the identical vintage and playing the same CD.
S:
Really?
M: This is
exactly how I imagined it would be. Thank you for indulging me.
S: What a
romantic thought. If I didn't know better, I would think you're trying to
seduce me.
M: If you
didn't know better. Of course.
*wink*
I was melting at
his words, but far be it from me to reveal this. We play this game of
cat-and-mouse.
S: Are these
tracks all your favorites, or just the ones you thought I would enjoy?
M: A
combination of both. 80 minutes is a lot of music.
S:
Hmmm. It's heavenly.
M: I
struggled over that track list. I'll have you know, it was a labor of
love. Doesn't this make you want to write with me? *hopeful smile *
S: I am
honored by your invitation. I would love to co-author with you, but --
perhaps when we have more time.
M: A bottle
of wine, good music, a friend who shares your interests. What time is
better than the present?
S: The
X-Files fanfic writers, especially the ones at Mulder's Refuge -- they are quite accomplished. I
dare say some of them are writers in real life, probably dallying in fanfic just for fun. We wouldn't do their challenge
justice in two hours. If we submit crap, they may look upon it as a sign
of disrespect. I would hate for that to happen.
M: A) We
wouldn't submit crap; have a little confidence. B) Even if we did, they're not
judgmental that way.
S: It's your
confidence that never ceases to amaze me. Maybe that's what it takes to
be successful in your field -- unshakable self-confidence, even when your work
sucks.
M: Wow, such
flattery! Telling me my work sucks. . .does this
mean you'll do it? :p
S: LOL!
You are relentless.
M: Please. . .?
S: OK, but I
want lots of NC-17 sex! Everything Chris Carter wouldn't let them have on
the show.
M:
LMAO. OK. But let's put that in a dream or something.
S: A
dream! What the . . .? How can you have hot monkey sex in a
dream? I don't want any of that floaty,
diaphanous BS. *wink*
M: Oh, trust me. . .it can be hot and "monkey" even if it isn't
real. And in the end, Mulder and Scully
maintain their perfectly balanced unresolved sexual tension.
S: You and
your UST . . . *shakes head *
M: When done
well, UST can be delicious.
S: But don't
you find yourself, some days, wanting to just throw all caution to the
wind?
M: Some days
I want that so bad that I can taste it.
A long pause.
S: Tell me
more about the challenge.
M: Nothing to
tell. "Moose on the Loose" is the prompt. Less than 35K
of moose-ish fiction set in the world of The
X-Files.
S: Must it be
"Mulder Torture"? I don't want to
hurt him. I like him best when he is cracking wise, teasing Scully with
sexual innuendo, "footloose and fancy-free."
M: He can be
all that, and still be tortured.
S: But that's
not your vision for this piece.
M: Who cares
about my vision? Yours takes precedence here.
S: You would
subjugate your own vision to mine? Unheard of.
M:
What? Am I that dominant?
S: Don't ask
questions if you don't want to hear the answer.
M: I want to
hear this answer.
S: Relax, Mulder. You strenuously defend your point of
view. I can appreciate that, being a vigorous advocate myself. It's
what makes our conversations interesting. Besides, I like dominance in
some arenas. *wink*
M: Why is it considered
impressive when it is a woman strenuously asserting her point of view?
When a man does the same thing, he is considered dictatorial.
S: Because
men have systematically dictatorially repressed female intellect in most
societies since the beginning of time? When a woman breaks the cultural
mold imposed upon her by generations of patriarchal thinking, it is to be
applauded. Just as men who buck the stereotypical expectations placed
upon them are to be commended. Why should you be congratulated for
behaving exactly as expected?
M: Scully . .
. marry me? (And don't think I missed your risque
comment about liking dominance in some arenas. I'm just avoiding it for
my own peace of mind.)
S: Are you
sure you want to engage in this kind of socio-political debate with me, of all
people, Mister? (I know you're avoiding it, and that's okay. I like
to tease, but if you took the bait, I would most certainly run.)
M: LOL. Hell,
no! Kick-ass women like you scare me. (Whatever you do, please
don't run. I would perish of a broken heart.)
S: You
lie. You have always admired strong, intelligent women. Just look
at your work. It reflects your desires. (Why are we conducting a
separate conversation in parentheses here?)
M: Does this
mean you will write with me? (Because it seems like a safe way to address
topics we are uncomfortable discussing directly.)
S: Like I
said, you're relentless. (What could you possibly think you can't tell me
directly? We tell each other everything.)
M: I'll take
that as a yes. (How about this: I love you.)
S: Oh,
brother. (I love you, too.)
The line.
The invisible line
had been crossed, the intangible boundary breached.
I closed my eyes,
allowing the gravity of the moment to wash over me like the gently undulating
waters of the great Parana River. I felt beautiful, painted with a hundred different shades
of gold, glistening as if God himself had taken a brush to me.
We never finished
the story we set out to write that night. It, like the continuously
developing epic of our relationship, remains an unceasing mystery.