You shipped them: Mulder and Scully. Some spooky guy
hot for aliens, hair flopping tantrums at a bald
FBI father figure. Too punk rock
for paperwork, he rendezvoused in soft
lit parking garages with strangers. She filed
the official reports on slick gray creatures,
straight-faced in her blazer. Snapped latex glove
above autopsy table. Scalpelled herself out
of hostage situations. If she got shot,
so what? Shoulder-padded, she played sharp shooter
to his damsel.
You shipped his special
agency to summon her: how she would come
to his rescue, skeptical of space invaders.
The heavens opened to such close encounters.
We all yearn for an unidentified
object. Do you investigate forever?
She probed volcanic caves, and parasitic
worms in Alaskan stations, then, rolled with news
of a hypermobile mutant hiding in her
apartment ducts. Like: what? It’s Tuesday. No
sweat for an agent. Taupe lipstick: perfect.
Red bob: unfazed. But why wait four seasons
for the big question on a relationship?
Hey, Mulder. Why don’t I
have my own desk in the basement?
You want to believe the truth
is out there, flying transcendent. Here’s the real
conspiracy: she never once sat down
in four years, and you called that a partnership.
