Oyster Season

****

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Now there's an original, articulate thought. So much for that four star
education, genius.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph (my mother's version of "fuck, fuck, fuck").

So much for being careful, so careful, not to let it show.

So much for hanging this stupid sign around my neck from so early on in
this little drama (comedy, tragedy).

That first day -- the glasses and the smirk, and the hair falling in his
eyes, and oh boy, oh boy, stop now, figure out how to stop now. And
later, the sweet sad confession in the dark, and this guy is better than
sweet Marcus, better than sad Jack, and I need something, something to
ward him off, and taking off my robe so he can explore with those long,
beautiful fingers -- thinking back, that was probably not the best way
to go about it, idiot.

Later, that day in the bar, himself ducking down to catch my eye and
offering to buy me a drink in the middle of the afternoon, and with a
hungry look that said watch it -- open season on sweet little oysters
was about to commence, and if there was cocktail sauce handy, I was
about to be shucked. It was then that I realized I needed a sign, one
that said "No shucking", and it had better take up a permanent place,
hung around my neck along with the little gold cross -- appropriate
accessories (probably the only appropriate accessories) -- for a good
Catholic girl, especially a good Catholic girl with her eye on the brass
ring and the ambition to go for it. And oh, yes, from now on every month
would have to be one without an 'R' in it. (Dammit)

And that was how it stayed between us, though every now and then, August
threatened to turn to September, sometimes pushed by me ("I wouldn't put
myself on the line for anyone but you..."), sometimes by himself ("You
are the only one I trust."). This month with no 'R' business meant
things stayed relatively warm of course (May, June, July, August, over
and over and over again), but we're adults, we handled it, we adjusted,
we hated it, we survived.

We survived through the period when I felt (and looked) like a
freeze-dried oyster mushroom, instead of the other; sweetness and
juiciness sure as hell no longer applied. And again there was himself
with the sweetness, the sadness, enough to make me seriously consider
trashing the damned sign. What did it matter then, that brass ring
(empty in the middle -- hadn't you noticed that, idiot?). But at that
point, cocktail sauce was a bit too reminiscent of blood and there was
too much of that, pouring down my face, soaking his carpet, and it was
mid-December, but nobody had much of an appetite for anything but
revenge.

And then -- was that Spring I felt? And why was I the only one feeling
it? What the hell happened to him? Was he stuck in December, or already
moved on to June? I tried, I tried -- too hard? It felt a little
desperate, and I should have realized that wine and cheese don't go well
with oysters. Had he lost his interest, his nerve, his knife? And that's
as close as we got -- one sad, sweet, (appetizer-less) night in the
forest (just like Alice in Wonderland, complete with doomed singing
oyster), and then the season turned for both of us, and the sign went
back around my neck, only this time it was hung there by him, I think.
Perhaps by then he thought it looked good, looked right (appropriate) on
me -- hideous thought and oh dammit how did I get myself into this,
because now it's starting to feel like a noose.

And to top it off, there she stands (long, beautiful legs), holding his
hand (long, beautiful fingers) and there's no sign around her neck, oh
no, and she's looking like one who's been well and truly shucked
(shucked early, shucked often) and watch out Mulder, that one's been
swimming in contaminated waters is my guess and hepatitis will be the
least of your worries.

So much for being careful, so careful, not to let it show.

Did they see me? No please no, the look on my face would have given it
all away, and I'm not giving anything away. If you think you've earned
it, if you think you deserve it (do you? do you want it?) you have to
tell me. I'm going to wait for you to tell me because I deserve that
dammit, and you'll find out -- you think you've feasted before, you
think you've been satisfied, just give me the right sign Mulder, and
I'll fling off mine, and every month will have an 'R' in it and heaven
will be an oyster bar.

So, the next time I talk to you, Pay Attention, are you paying
attention? Listen carefully to what I am saying. If you were wondering,
questioning, exploring, trying to decide what you needed?

Time to get out the cocktail sauce, boyo. It's me.

*Beep*

"Mulder."

"Mulder -- It's me."

****

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