The Spectrum
		By Standing
	The Spectrum (triple h & jeff hardy; triple h narrates) January 13, 2002 I’m eyeing you nonchalantly as you cross the parking lot in silence and head indoors to prep for a match you’ve got tonight. Your narrow hips sway lightly with the pace of your feet and you clutch the bag over your shoulder to keep your arms from swinging at your sides. There’s something much offset and appealing about the way you move; it’s awkward in a way, because your weight never seems to find the right place to settle but at the same time it’s nimble and catlike as though your body exudes the confidence you feel. It’s reminiscent of a young boy that has yet to settle himself into an identity. Sighing, I slip out of my car and lock it up. I can’t believe I’ve actually developed an affection for you. We’d be such an unlikely pair, as you hang around with your androgynous playmates and I with my big, tough schoolyard bully-types. It seems that while we both have that natural aptitude for the sport, we’re on complete opposite ends of the spectrum. And yet, you have me completely captivated. I’m intrigued by the way you move, the way you talk in that sweet, slow drawl and the way you’re bursting with rebellion against anyone or anything that challenges you. Your whole persona seems oxymoronic when paired with your size, which is generally small in comparison to those of us that surround you. It fascinates me; it makes me want to know everything about you and how you work the way you do. I get shit on by the guys all the time for this too, I think as I enter the building behind you. “Hunter,” they laugh at me, slapping their knees ridiculously. “You can’t be serious. That little rug rat? You’d break him in half! He ain’t nothin’ but a baby.” They call me all kinds of names and make all kinds of lewd comments, but I tend to just shut them out because they don’t really get it. I’m not aroused by you; I’m enchanted. It’s almost a fatherly sort of tender that I feel when I see you roaming about the halls of the building after a taping, or lounging in the green room picking at catering. I watch your matches and cringe when you hit the mat. When I see you all by yourself, I just have the urge to wrap you up in my arms and protect you from anything that might come along. I know I’m not that much older than you, and I know that you don’t need my protection, but I can’t help myself from wishing I could take you under my wing . En route to my dressing room, I pass the locker room and glance inward to see you sitting on a bench, unlacing your sneakers. Looking up at the sound of my boots on the linoleum, we make eye contact and you smile amicably in welcome. “Jeff,” I nod at you, smiling back and continuing on my way. Steve Austin is walking towards me and sees our brief greeting. He’s got that shit-eating grin on his face and I know he’s going to make some stupid comment or another about how I’m infatuated with the infantile Hardy boy. “Pedophile,” He mutters as we pass each other in the narrow hallway. “Fuck off, Olympic Bed Bitch,” I call back over my shoulder, smiling to myself as I enter my room.