Sound
and Light ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She sings. I don't know if anybody else knows that, but she sings. She sings along with programmed music selections, when she’s cooking dinner, and while she uses the sonic shower. Her voice is reed-like and innocent, a contradiction to her regal, obstinate beauty and a complement to her luminous china blue eyes. Most of the time, when she sings to me, we're dancing in my quarters. She activates the privacy locks on the doors and our communicators, moves the coffee table, and puts her arms around me. I lean against her, and close my eyes completely. I try to become indistinct, to somehow blur into her biosuit. She moves her hands in slow circles on my back, taking away the knots and stresses of the day. Then she sings, softly, plaintively… her lips seraphic in their naiveté. And in the safe harbor of her embrace I breathe deeply. I can’t forget who I am and what I’ve done, but for a little while it doesn’t have to chafe as much. For now I can let this certainty be enough for us both. It’s been years. Years since I let her see me in the morning wrestling with dreams of sunsets at Union square and my dead father. Years since she let me catch her silently staring out the window, the starlight painting her skin as she scowls. Something is different now. She asked me yesterday if I was aware that we had just had an anniversary, that she had just been to a gathering last week and felt the pain of secrecy keenly. She couldn’t tell them about me, couldn’t describe what we have. She doesn’t just want me now, she wants us. I told her that her discretion was vital, as it always has been. I can’t make it easier for her however I put it. I can make it easier for me and I suppose that’s what I’m doing. I told her the tension of our separation fueled our passion. I told her that those who know the realities of replicators and errands don’t know the flawless passion that we have. In short, I lied. I promised her things would be different when we got home, that we could lead a different life. “This is my home.” She said quietly. “You are my life.” I love her. I love her because she never capitulates. I love her for her wondrous intelligence and her unconscious coquetry. I love her because she has the air of doubting nothing, the integrity to be guiltlessly selfish. I love her for what is also in me: the struggle and sacrifice, the honor and valor. She only knows the love of warm sheets, of tangled legs, gripping and sweaty. That is the love I have given her in return for the plaintive slow dances when we are fully clothed. I told her once, very early on, that she didn’t even know what love was. She still doesn’t. And that is my fault, my failure. What do I say to her? Do I tell her that there are days that Voyager is a curse because I know that what she craves I cannot give? Do I tell her that I fear the loss of control, the loss of my very soul as I am immolated by my desire for her? What words would I use? How can I tell her… that there is beauty in the small kiss; the kiss given in passing, in public, at transporter pads, before opening the door to my mother’s house…. dry and close-lipped and tender with the simple pain and fear of everyday life. The kiss of two lives entwined, the caress of something shared. The kiss we cannot afford. The common price of passion that is too high for us to pay while we make our way home. How can I make her understand? This is not our home. It can be hers and it can be mine, but there is no “us” and there is no “ours” on this ship. There can be no time to cuddle near the replicator and pick decorations with which to adorn the walls and nooks of our home. No space for us to stroll and dally and dream of children with strawberry-blond hair. Not enough. Never enough to enjoy the miraculous mundanities of normal life: of Icheb in the Academy visiting on weekends, picnics with B’Ellana and Tom, rich conversations with Tuvok, broken sonic showers and malfunctioning replicators, cooking disasters and garden fiascos. This is not a home. How can I ask her to wait, to patiently bear the long years ahead and take what little happiness we can? The bursts of light in the void mean so much until we can see the light of our destination. Why can’t she see it….the light of our forever, the light of what is possible, the light of perfection itself? This is the light that I consume to keep me going through the months and years… I don’t want to know if it’s the distance, both physical and psychological, that makes our lovemaking burn so bright. I don’t want to know what I should tell the fire in my chest, so willing to send flames into my hands so they will reach out for her, touch her in my dreams, have her touch me in reply. I am a lovely void, a black hole gorging on fears. I’m not afraid of what I am. I’m afraid of what I’m not. I’m afraid of the person she sees when she looks at me… because I wonder if I can ignite a passion that could burn, not that bright, but that long. Long enough to light our way through the darkness of the path that leads, finally, home.
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