And Cupid Laughed (1/2) by JHJ Armstrong (8/2000) Rating: NC-17 Summary: So much depends on a painted carousel. Post-ep for "The Goldberg Variation." Keywords: MSR/RST, smut, post-ep. Content: S, R, H Disclaimer: Henry, Scully and Mulder -- not mine. Family of six -- mine. I refuse to take credit for the mariachi band, however. They're an entity unto themselves. You'll see. Distribution: Auto-archives, peachy keen. Anywhere else, sure, but drop me a line? Thanks. Feedback: As always, feed a starving fullback at piglit1975@aol.com. Send any dentist bills elsewhere. ;P Web site: http://copygirl.softballjunkies.com/pigsfly.html From the author: Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "Goldberg?" So sue me. It's an improv. Thanks to CazQ for elements, and to Virginia for everything else. This little fable could not have been completed without the help of some rather stupendous people. Props to M. Sebasky and cofax, who helped with not-so-little details. Alicia K., my original muse, and Token gave sage advice and gentle evisceration. Special thanks to Livia and Alanna, who reminded me to show, not tell. Most special thanks to EPur, who poked, prodded, nagged and nitted through more versions of this thing than either of us care to remember. Virtual fried dough and funnel cakes to you all. More production notes after the story. Pronunciation note: "Szczerbiak" is "Zer-bee-ack." ;P ============================== Let's talk about love, shall we? It's such a strange emotion, with all kinds of layers and incarnations. If it were a city, it would be a nearly hopeless snarl of dusty dead ends, narrow side streets and insane six-way intersections. Never, ever an interstate; probably not even a two-lane county road. And whether it's fate, chance or accident, the course of love is never an easy one. History is full of examples: Marc Antony and Cleopatra, Hepburn and Tracy, Henry VIII and most of his court. Today, though, we're going to meet Cupid and Psyche; theirs is a story for the ages. Immoral immortals, petty jealousy, hypocrisy, true love nearly thwarted -- in short, a school parking lot has fewer speedbumps. A scholar would tell you that Psyche is the Greek name for butterfly, and this lovers' tale is simply a metaphor for the chrysalis cycle. A cynic would say that all the love in the world can't make up for the rottenness of human nature. But a romantic would sigh, and say that sometimes, love is enough. ============================== Chicago, Illinois 3 p.m. Henry Weems, Scully and I stand together outside the children's ward, watching Ritchie and his mom comfort each other. "What are the odds for Cutrona being a perfect match?" I ask. "A thousand to one? A million to one?" Scully is both matter-of-fact and wondrous, a preposterous combo in anyone but her. "Maybe higher. Maybe everything does happen for a reason ... whether we see it or not." "Maybe your luck is changing," I tell Henry. "Maybe," he replies, and goes to join the Lupones. He sets off his toy as he walks by, and when the ball goes in the hoop, Scully looks up at me and smiles. We may not get back to D.C. before sunset, but the world seems pretty all right to me. ------------------- I knock on her door, and Scully lets me in, then continues packing her things. While I was on the hold with the folks who book the surly skies, I changed into Levis, a T-shirt and sweater; she has gone casual as well, now wearing faded jeans and a long-sleeved, white pullover with a collar. Her feet are bare, and the sight of dark-purple polish with sparkles makes me smile. "Bad news, partner." I deposit myself in the corner chair. "Skinner called." "Interesting you think that in itself is bad news, but no. Guess again." "We missed the hot donuts at Krispy Kreme." "Nope. Good idea for later, though." "Wile E. Coyote caught the Road Runner?" "Ooo -- swing and a miss. Strike three." She zips up her suitcase, and her top rides up a bit as she stretches to reach the far corner. A slice of bare skin and the top half of her tattoo are revealed for a second before she turns around and sits on the bed. "What, then?" "Um ..." I look down at my feet, then back at her, ducking my head a little. She made it very clear earlier that she just wants to go home, and I hate to disappoint her. "No flights until tomorrow." "Oh." She ponders this, but instead of the resigned sigh I expected, she says: "And the Bulls are in Detroit." I sit up straight. "Scully! I didn't know you cared." "Normally, I don't. But you do, so I paid attention when the interns at the hospital were discussing whether or not Elton Brand is really rookie of the year material." "He is. But so's Szczerbiak in Minnesota, and if Lamar Odom wasn't stuck in the basement with the Clippers he'd get a lot more attention. Plus, you've got Francis in Houston, Andre Miller, Shawn Marion --" She holds up a hand. "I don't care that much, Mulder." "Right. Sorry. So ... the Bulls are out of town, and we have a night and most of another day at our disposal. What, oh what are we to do?" She glances at me, giving me that 'I don't want to know what you're thinking' look I see at least six times a day, but this time something velvety and inviting lurks behind it. After a few charged seconds, she looks away, and her gaze settles on the phone book. She looks back at me, perhaps thinking of the technique I used earlier today to find the linen company where Henry and Maggie were being held. I twirl my index finger around once, twice, then point it at her. "This time, we'll let *your* fingers do the walking." ----------------------- Entrance to Six Flags Great America Gurnee, Illinois 6 p.m. We buy our tickets and walk through the gate, both of us a little in awe of towering steel and hurtling cars on tiny wheels and screaming daredevils with flailing arms. The air is a heady mixture of popcorn, engine grease, funnel cakes and mini donuts. It's incredibly warm for late October, and there's a decent crowd. Honking horns, squealing children, canned music and distant water splashes add to the chaotic atmosphere. "Wow, Mulder. This is ... wow. I haven't been to an amusement park since I was in college." "What about Jim-Jim the Dog-Faced Boy?" "Mmm, that was ... more of a freak show, I'd say. Then again, we weren't guided to it by a phone book." A blond Clearasil teen dressed in khaki shorts and red polo shirt embroidered with the park's logo brandishes a Nikon at us. "Hey, you two, how 'bout a picture?" We look at each other. She's smiling, but it's the tight, lips-only one, the one I know means she's uncomfortable but won't admit it. "C'mon," cajoles the shutterbug, zeroing in on Scully. He smells like he poured the entire bottle of Drakkar Noir on himself this morning. "You can pick up a copy later at the gift shop. They make great keepsakes." He holds up the camera like it's the answer to world hunger, or at least a New York Times Sunday crossword stumper. I sling an arm across her shoulders. "Say cheese, Scully." She looks up at me, and I mentally tell her to relax. After a nearly imperceptible nod, her smile widens the tiniest bit, and she slings an arm around my waist. "Cheese, Scully." The shutter clicks. ============================== Flashback to when gods and goddesses were the reason for everything and anything, and Greeks and Romans ruled the land. The myths prove the inhabitants of Olympus often had nothing better to do than meddle with those mundane humans. Cupid, of course, had no idea what kind of Pandora's Box he was opening when he followed his mother's order to make the beautiful Psyche fall in love with a far inferior (okay, ugly) man. The truth? Venus felt threatened by Psyche's beauty. People were adoring a mere mortal instead of worshiping at her shrines, and that sort of sacrilege had to be punished. But such chores were beneath her, so she recruited her son, a bit of an imp himself, to do the dirty work. Hate is the opposite of love, but they can seem awfully similar. Any family could tell you that. ============================== Figuring we should start slow, Scully and I do two bumper cars and a Scrambler before taking on the Raging Bull. It's everything a coaster should be: twisty, fast and gut-wrenching in two and a half minutes. When it's over, we both wobble pleasantly, enjoying the adrenaline rush. Still, it's a good thing we waited to eat. I follow my nose to chili dogs and fried dough. She goes for a chicken breast sandwich and one gigantic puffball of cotton candy. She picks the fluffy purplish stuff off the paper cone with a relish I've only seen her exhibit for corpses and the occasional salad or bee pollen-topped yogurt. She licks her fingers, truly enjoying herself, and watching the blissful enjoyment makes me forget to inhale. After a few moments, I draw in a strangled breath; unfortunately, a piece of hot dog comes with it. I cough, violently. "Jesus, Mulder," she says, getting up and coming around the table to rub my back. "Are you okay?" I nod. "Ju ... jus' fi-ine," I wheeze, trying to catch my breath. She gives me one final rub and pat, then sits down next to me, starting in again on the candy cloud. When I've recovered somewhat, I take a long drink of lemonade, then snag some of her dessert, letting it dissolve lumpily on my tongue. "Nice to see I didn't disrupt *your* snack." "Mulder, this beehive of spun sugar represents exactly 139 stomach crunches. So believe me when I say none of it is going to waste." She starts in on the candy again, her tongue darting out to grab another tuft from her nimble fingers. I decide not to tempt fate by watching her again, and instead distract myself with a rambunctious family of six at the next table. Mom and Dad are mid- to late-30s, both brown-haired, fit. She's tanned, he's balding. The kids range in age from a boy who looks about 7 to an infant who fidgets in a red-and-white-striped stroller with white padded railings. The boy chases a girl who looks about a year younger, trying to get at something in the girl's left hand. "That's mine!" he hollers. When he catches her, he drags her to the ground and grabs for the something, which looks small, plastic and not suitable for children under three. The girl manages to roll over, pinning her brother to the ground, then straddles his waist and starts to pound on his chest with her fists. While her father tries to prevent fratricide, the second youngest, a girl, toddles over to our table. She holds out a tiny, dirty fist, and when she opens it, little pink sequins flutter to the cement. She holds out her other hand, and I see a Barbie doll whose dress has been divested of its shimmery ornaments. "Jaycie!" cries her mother, getting up and heading toward her wayward daughter. "Come here." She takes Jaycie's hand and gently leads her away, but the girl twists free and runs back toward me. She holds out Barbie again, the frayed threads formerly known as sequins making the dress look a bit mangy. "For me?" I ask. She nods. I take the doll, then stand as she's scooped up by her mother. "I'm sorry," Mom tells me. "We're still working on the 'Don't talk to strangers' thing." "It's okay," I say, tucking Barbie into the front of the girl's denim bibs. Her solemn brown eyes watch me over Mom's shoulder as she's carted away. When I turn back to Scully, she is grinning at me. Her teeth and gums are tinted purple. Come to think of it, they almost match her toenails. This time, my cough hides a laugh. ============================== To hear Venus tell it, Psyche was a haughty, spoiled brat who loved to flaunt her beauty, and Cupid headed out in righteous indignation. He would show that upstart who was boss. But when he beheld the sleeping girl, he saw that she was no more than an innocent whom the Fates had seen fit to endow with generous proportions. Not sure what to think, in his distraction he pricked himself with his own arrow -- right after he'd pricked Psyche to set his mother's trap. The stage was set for some serious drama. Love doesn't always bite; sometimes, it nibbles. When the hook is set, we have to decide when to fight -- and when to just let ourselves get reeled in. ============================== "Where to next?" I ask. Scully shrugs, jiggling the Bugs Bunny ears I bought her, then made her wear. It's about 9 o'clock, and we are sitting on a bench in the Mission Courtyard, listening to a mariachi band croon its way through a Spanish ballad. An elderly couple gets up to dance, and we watch them sway to the beat with timeless steps and ageless grace. "I don't know ... we could try that inverted coaster, or the Giant Drop, or that swing thing, as much as it looked like a deathtrap ... or we could just play it by ear," she says. With a sideways glance toward me, she stands up and extends a hand. "Dance with me?" she asks shyly, like she's unsure if I would, or she should. I take her hand and spin her around before holding her close. "Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?" asks the salsa-rific singer, and I look down to see that my partner of six years and change is smiling, smiling at me, and for seemingly no other reason that she's happy to be here, topped by fake rabbit ears and surrounded by Mexican kitsch and the Doritos Banditos slaughtering Lennon and McCartney. We don't look away this time. Our heads inch closer, and our eyes have closed in anticipation of the inevitable when what seems like the entire park goes "Ooooo!" and Scully whirls around to see the place light up like the Sunset Strip. Damn. Foiled by the neon. She points to a dome in the distance. "I think that's the double-decker carousel we saw earlier. Let's go!" And even though I keep up with her, she keeps hold of my hand. ============================== And Cupid Laughed (1/2) by JHJ Armstrong (piglit1975@aol.com) Continued in Part 2 All parts at http://copygirl.softballjunkies.com/cupid.html And Cupid Laughed (2/2) by JHJ Armstrong (piglit1975@aol.com) Disclaimer, etc. in Part 1. All parts at http://copygirl.softballjunkies.com/cupid.html ============================== The carousel is huge, ten stories tall, two levels of silver horses, gilded poles and painted benches. I move forward, tugging her along to get in line. She can't take her eyes off it. The family from before is a few rows ahead in the queue, looking pooped but happy. Mom spies me and lifts her hand from the stroller containing a now-drowsing infant to give a little wave. We wave back. On her shoulder, a restless Jaycie whimpers; Mom settles her with such tenderness it almost hurts to watch. Scully's hand is still in mine, and I tighten my grip just enough to reassure the both of us. We get on board and ascend to the top level, where I climb atop a purple stallion. She takes the grey one next to it. The carousel starts to move, but she doesn't. I bob up and down, trying not to laugh as she squirms in the saddle, looking as if she'd gladly dig some spurs into the horse's rear if that would get it going. "Something wrong, Scully?" "Mulder, my horse isn't moving." "Astute as always, partner. Maybe it died of Trigger envy." She shoots me a dirty look and leans down to see that her steed is, in fact, bolted to the floor. She shakes her head and leans it against the pole, seemingly resigning herself to a stationary ride. The carousel rotates twice before she turns in my direction. "Mulder?" "Yeah, Scully?" A soft smile. "I'm glad there weren't any flights tonight." She tilts her chin into the wind, letting it kiss her face and hair. Her simple beauty stuns me with more than its usual force, making me very aware of the woman she is and not the superwoman she so often tries to be. Clearing my throat, I decide to take a chance. "You know, Scully, my ride feels pretty sturdy. I think there might even be room for two in this saddle." Her head whips around, and she regards me with definite amusement. "Now that," she says slowly, "is a horse of an entirely different color." I hold a hand to my heart and groan. "Quit stealing my lines and get over here." To my surprise, she dismounts and moves to my side, stepping carefully as the carousel sways. As I hit the bottom of a rotation, she plants a foot in one stirrup and we end up face-to-face, her bottom in the middle and a leg draped over each one of mine. Her hands rest on her thighs. The rabbit ears bop me in the face, and she laughs and takes them off. "Hi there," she says, looking up at me. "Hello." I'm not sure where to put my hands, so I grab the pole behind her, elbows alongside her head. It makes me have to bend down toward her even more, but in this case I think it's okay. "So," she muses, "are we still playing by ear?" She tries to scoot a bit closer, bumping all the right places in the process. Breathe, Mulder. "Um, I think so, yes. Sure." "Okay." She puts her arms around my neck and we kiss. The initial brush of our lips is sweet, fleeting, like the first taste of a just-unwrapped Tootsie Pop. I definitely like the flavor, so I intensify the kiss. After a bit, her tongue makes a tentative foray in my direction; the first touch brings all sorts of tingles, all over. I return the favor, imagining I can taste the cotton candy from earlier. We are engaged in a nice match of tonsil hockey when the sound of whispers and badly smothered giggles makes its way into my brain. "Scully? Is that you laughing?" "Nothing funny here," she murmurs, lips against mine. Another kiss, more tittering. I don't dare open my eyes. "Tell me that's not the horses snickering at us." She pulls away. "It's not the horses." She points, and I turn to see two preteen girls who have occupied the horses behind us, giggling and pointing. One has blond pigtails, the other a long, black braid. "Hi there," Scully says, setting off another wave of hilarity. She gives me a rueful smile. I steal one more short peck, then she leans her head on my chest and sighs. "Someday, it won't be nearly that funny to them," she says. "Ah, youth. Wasted on the young," I reply. ============================== So Cupid did obey his mother, and Psyche did fall in love. With Cupid, that is. Whoops. Thankfully, she wasn't unrequited. However, that whole mortal/god thing got in the way, and she ended up spending her days alone in a secluded palace, though her every whim was anticipated and attended to. Her loving husband came to her at night and left before dawn. Fabulous nooky, but she did wonder what the man behind her orgasms looked like. Eventually, she discovered he was anything but hideous. Then Cupid banished her for what he saw as treachery. As is sometimes the case, when we look too closely at the things that please us, they can blow up in our faces. On the other hand ... ============================== When we get off the carousel, we make a beeline for the SkyWhirl, a souped-up Ferris wheel of sorts, and commandeer one semi-enclosed car for some serious necking. The view at the top is breathtaking, the lights of Chicago at night sprawling for miles, but you can't blame me for being far more interested in the woman sprawled out beneath me on a padded red vinyl bench. She was reluctant at first, but I nuzzled and kissed and caressed my way past her barriers and now she is getting as carried away as I am. She finds a spot where my neck meets my shoulder that makes me shudder and exploits it until I'm out of my mind with lust. I gorge myself on her, alternating between the saltiness of her throat and the tanginess of a shoulder, returning now and then to partake of the sweetness of her mouth. About fifteen minutes later, the ride's circuit ends, and we try to collect ourselves enough to appear in public. I catch a glimpse of her flushed face and mussed hair as we pass another brightly lit ride. She is glorious. We head toward the exit, and to the left of the gate, the gift shop entrance is clogged with people squinting through key chains. I think of Nikon Boy and fish the slip of paper he gave me with our number on it out of my pocket. "C'mon, Scully, let's see how that picture turned out." We go inside, and I hand the receipt to the clerk, whose head seems to bear more butterfly clips than hair. She types in a few commands, and the picture appears on a screen. We look at it, then at each other. "Can we get it in an 8x10?" Scully asks. "Sure," says the clerk. "Make it two. And a key chain," I add. She gives me a questioning glance. I shrug. "Beats the Apollo, don't you think?" I ask, absurdly pleased when she leans up on tiptoe to kiss me. "No problem," says the clerk. She puts the park logo on the pictures before printing them out. It takes about fifteen minutes to seal the tiny photo inside hard plastic, during which time we wander around the store, pointing out silly souvenirs and trying unsuccessfully to keep our hands off each other. At any rate, we gave the video surveillance operators quite a show. The walk to the car lasts much longer than it should, what with pauses for random groping. Each time we stop, we go a little further, get a little bolder, until all I want to do is bury myself inside her and fuck both of us senseless. The drive back to the hotel passes in a testosterone fog, my mind repeating only one thing: This relationship will not be consummated in a rental car. This relationship will NOT -- "Scully, don't *do* that or I'll run us off the road!" She pulls back, grinning, wholly unrepentant. When we get back to the motel, we stumble and fumble our way to the bed, clumsy with want, and my shirt and her jeans are off before I manage to ruin the mood. "Scully, do you think this is a wise idea?" She pauses, my zipper in her teeth, looks up at me and lets go, sitting up to straddle my left thigh. She gives me a long stare, assessing the situation, then flops down on her back beside me. "No, Mulder, I don't. Anything else on your mind?" "Are we only doing this because we're half a country away from home?" Christ on a three-legged dog, Mulder! Shut. Up. She thinks about this. "Honestly? Yes, partly." She rises on an elbow, facing me. I try to ignore the curve of her hip and the fact her panties are black silk. And skimpy. And edged with lace. "But I also think we're doing this because we both sense we can handle it now. Not that we'll always be on the same page because we do this ..." She flops back onto her stomach, laying her head on her arms, voice muffled a little. "Mulder, I'm tired of pretending I don't want ... whatever it is we seem to have. Some days, I don't feel right unless you're within spitting distance; other days, I can't stand the sight of you." "I can't deny I share that sentiment." "The former or the latter?" "I don't think I'll answer that." "Probably a good idea." She sighs. "I just ... I feel like we're always looking back, waiting for the past to catch up with us. I'd like to try chasing the future." "In principle, Scully, I couldn't agree with you more. But it's not easy to change lifelong habits." "I understand," she says, and links her fingers with mine. "But Mulder ... don't you want me?" "Yes. Yes, I do." "Okay ... so what's the problem?" She is very much in earnest. I try to match her honesty. "Sometimes, I don't *want* to want you." She looks at me and snorts, which makes me laugh. Her answering giggle turns into a full-fledged guffaw, and we lie there on the bed in shared hilarity. She sobers a bit, then says, "Listen, Mulder. If we make love, right here on this bed, right now, I assure you that it's because I want to, and not just because we're away from home or you have me half-naked already. Does that solve your problem?" I smile. "More or less." I take her right hand and press an open-mouthed kiss to the palm, getting my tongue into the act. Her eyelids flutter, then close. I continue with nibbling her arm, watching her breathing deepen and slow. After a bite/suck in one particularly sensitive spot on her inner arm, she trembles and rolls to her right, essentially pinning herself underneath me. One last questioning look from me, one final nod from her, and it's like we never stopped. Tongues, hands, teeth, legs and arms seem like they're everywhere at once, and when I kneel between her legs, both of us breathless with anticipation, and run my hands up her inner thighs ... I wonder how I could ever question that this is absolutely where I'm meant to be. I lower my head and breathe her in, making a few passes with my tongue, then part her with my fingers and dive in. She is tentative at first, but soon she is guiding my head and hands, rubbing against my mouth. She gasps, once, then her feet plant on the bed and she trembles and surges, hips and back lifting in the air as she hits the peak. Her head tosses back and forth, and she whimpers a bit as the tide ebbs. I rest my head on her leg for a minute, then make my way up her torso, murmuring things like "that was beautiful" and "you're so amazing, Scully," punctuating it with kisses. She sighs and runs a hand through my hair, fingers tightening as I close my mouth over a rosy nipple, flicking it with the tip of my tongue. I roll it between my lips, varying the pressure, loving the taste and texture of her, smoky and smooth. I circle her breast with the flat of my tongue, blowing gently, groin tightening at the sight. One hand keeps my balance and the other traces her arm just hard enough not to tickle as I turn to the other breast. I take my hand from her arm to shape and knead the mound. She looks at me, eyes dilated and hypnotizing, and I find I've forgotten to breathe for the second time today. Her other breast is just as delicious. I trail a hand back down her stomach, gently probing with two fingers before penetrating her with one. Her whole body blushes, and I manipulate her with nothing more than my hands until she is flying again. Before she's fully recovered from that one, I slide inside her and the exquisite sensation makes us both groan. I start to move, and it's like liquid heat is pumping in my veins instead of blood. This is incredible. She is warm, wet and tight around me, and the look of pure ecstasy on her face is enough to fuel my dreams for weeks. It's so good, and I know I won't last long. I try to say something, but she just puts her fingers over my lips and wraps her legs high around my waist. "Don't think about it, Mulder. Just make love to me," she says, so I do. She makes these little sighs and moaning noises that only serve to egg me on, and I move faster and faster, driving her into the bed and working us both into a frenzy. She digs her nails into my back and drags them down across my ass, sinks her teeth into my shoulder. I'm in a zone. I'm not sure how long it lasts, but when I come it's ferocious and intense. She doesn't seem capable of much more than heavy breathing and limp caresses. Guess there was still some air in those bike tires. I roll over onto my side, staying inside her, and we look at each other. I realize she's regarding me with the same possessiveness she had for that cotton candy earlier. Hot damn. But I'm a man, and I've just had an incredible orgasm, so before long my eyelids start to droop. As I drift off, I feel her hands running through my hair, down my arms, everywhere. She starts to whisper. "I will still feed you, I will still need you, when I'm sixty-four ..." ============================== It is the capacity to love one person to the exclusion of all others, and to always be searching for that love, that makes us imperfect, real. It is the price we pay for being utterly human -- and utterly alive. After her banishment, poor Psyche wandered the land sans food or rest, only wanting to find a way back to the love she'd squandered. She ended up begging for mercy at Venus' feet. The goddess was unimpressed. Cupid, unable to bear being away from his love any longer, escaped through the window of the room where his vituperative mother had stuck him and went to plead his case before Jupiter. The top god listened with a sympathetic ear, then went to convince Venus that the kids deserved some joy. See, even the Fates have to allow for happy endings. And in the end, when Psyche was made a goddess so the lovers could be together forever, it was Cupid who had the last laugh. ============================== Scully wakes up beautiful, if a bit disconcerted. A bit of wriggling, a yawn, and one eye opens, then the other. Her gaze takes in me and my morning erection, giving us a frank assessment. I catch the quirk of her lips before she turns to stretch, then watch her and her tattoo shuffle into the bathroom. I get up and saunter over to the dresser, where the photos and key chain landed last night. I can see why she wanted the 8x10. We don't look like untouchable FBI agents, defenders of truth and justice in somber suits. We look like Mulder and Scully, regular folk in casual clothes, who go to amusement parks because the phone book told us to. The shower starts, and I peek around the curtain just as she starts to lather up her hair. "Mulder!" Startled, she jumps. "What?" I shrug. "Nothing. Just ... looking." I let my eyes roam, and she blushes. "Can I let you in on a secret, Mulder?" Her voice has a raspy-tired tone that fills up my senses like water into a sponge. Her smile would be almost shy, if she wasn't naked and covered in suds. I'll call it lightly teasing. "Bring it on." "I've known you've been watching for years." She hands me the soap. "Would you get my back?" "Always," I say, and join her under the spray. -- 30 -- =================================== feedback to piglit1975@aol.com thanks for playing in the sandlot with me http://copygirl.softballjunkies.com/pigsfly.html improv elements, courtesy of CazQ: * small, pale pink shimmery sequins scattered on the ground * a plastic Happy Meal toy * from Ahdaf Soueif's 'The Map of Love' (words are Arabic): "'Hubb' is love, 'ishaq' is love that entwines two people together, 'shaghaf' is love that nests in the chambers of the heart, 'hayam' is love that wanders the earth, 'teeh' is love in which you lose yourself, 'walah' is love that carries sorrow within, 'sababah' is love that exudes from your pores, ''hawa' is love that shares its name with 'air' and with 'falling', 'gharam' is love that is willing to pay the price'. Noticias: Okay, so all my buddies were killing the sprog or otherwise being brilliantly angsty. Since I lean toward the happier end of the spectrum, this is what you get from me. Perhaps someday my angst will come. Incidentally, this is the first two-part story (i.e. longer than 20-25K) I've ever posted. If you'd like to read more about Cupid and Psyche, their chapter in Bulfinch's Mythology can be found here: http://www.showgate.com/medea/bulfinch/bull11.html Another version of the story is here: http://hsa.brown.edu/~maicar/Psyche.html