By JET

Email: curried_goates@yahoo.com

Caramel, OH
12 March 2010

They met at the edge of the park behind the hospital. Winter was
giving up very slowly, as it did every year, but the snow had melted
and by midday sitting outside was at least bearable. Crocuses were
loyal to the pin oak here, coming up purple and sharp through wiry
brown grass at the tree's exposed roots. 

Old men's knuckles, Mulder thought. In a memory his father's palm
was painted with sunshine, a softball he'd lobbed traveled the length
of a green yard and Samantha stood at second base, picking a scab
on her knee. It felt like someone else's past.

Scully unpacked a ham sandwich from a squishy little cooler and
unwound her long wool scarf before settling onto their usual bench. 

"How was it this morning?" he asked her.

"I don't think they were exactly surprised." She gave him a carrot
stick. "Anyway, with the economy in the state it's in, they shouldn't
have too much trouble finding a replacement."

"Health care's held up pretty well," Mulder posited. He unwrapped
his own sandwich after fishing out two kleenex from his coat
pocket. She blinked at him. "Forgot the napkins."

"It's a good place to work. They'll probably get 900 applications."

"So...one week?" He tried to sound nonchalant. 

"One week. I still have to tell Mom." Scully looked across the park
pond at a trio of mallards swimming in a zigzag. 

Last night they'd been stretched out under a quilt on the couch, too
spent to move to the bedroom yet. She said, *You and I are not
going to save the universe.*

He took a breath and let it go. 

*It doesn't mean we don't still have obligations -- to our families
and neighbors, to each other.*

*To him,* he'd whispered, and she nodded, her hair rustling against
his shoulder.

Today he said, "We'll be back before, well, probably not by
Easter. But by Memorial Day."

She shifted her eyes to his.

"By Labor Day, then," Mulder said. He meant it. He swore he
meant it.

"We'll see," Scully said, the merest hint of a smile in her voice. 

In a week, he and she would get in a lousy '86 Pontiac with faded
paint and no airbags and start driving west. It would be Spring in a
week. The daffodils would follow the crocuses. The sun would lean
closer. Her hand was already warm in his. They might never make
it back.