Why do two people fall in love with each other? We could chalk it up to science; chemistry; chemicals, we are animals after all, we crave a mate. We have a deep ache in our womb to procreate, to be filled by another; literally and figuratively. Yet we seek companionship through conversation, deliberation, personal fascination, and a million other intangible ideas that our psyche’s consist of; that they crave and in return must be fed, then released to another, and the cycle continued.
Therefore, we live for symbiosis, a less severe counterpart of codependency. Humans need contact, physical contact; touch. We need affection through embrace and promises and sexual satisfaction. As we are animals after all. Human beings are finicky creatures of habit, we crave, we devour, and we crave again.
Leaving nearly no space for the realization that maybe what we really need, after all, is routine. We need structure, order, we crave cycles, we yearn for familiarity. So is that what love is, the repeated act of not being lonely, of not floating around like a dandelion in the wind? It could be, it just could be. But. It. Isn’t. Love is irrational, chaotic, passionate, terrifying, mystifying, satisfying.
Love was fabricated in the corners of the universe, in the hands of a creator. At the mercy of humans expense, so that we could feel something so gratifying that when we feel it, we believe. And when we believe, we act. And when we act, we fulfil. A creator’s desires are met through the observance of its creation.
I’ve deliberated over this for nearly a decade, on long car rides in cheap rental cars, in crummy motel room with crusty bathtubs, staring down the barrel of a gun full of bullets, and most frequently with a hand to the small of my back.
Why the hell is that hand there? How does it always end up there? Sometimes it startles me, and then I feel the warmth of his skin seeping into mine, and I breathe deeper than I ever have, I breathe wholly. I remember the first time it happened, yeah, who’s got a photographic memory now? It was early on, it seemed to stem from possessiveness. But I’m not the one with an Oxford diploma in the art of psychology.
What do I know? Sure, I can cut you open and sew you back up like nothing happened, but I can’t tell you why I lay awake at night, my stomach churning, tickling, ruining my big girl panties for the thousandth night in a row because my mind wanders. It wanders into the unknown. It fills up with the proposition that maybe that hand is there for a reason. Why does he always touch me there?
And then here I am, a full hour early to work, fully dressed in my big girl power suit, sipping black coffee, firing up the search engine, typing in; what does it mean when a man touches your back? I’ve worked with him for five years, why am I googling it only now? What has possessed me to do so? Well I’ve decided to not give myself the pleasure to answer that syrupy question.
Oh, it’s just oozing, festering, growing in size day by day like a giant cyst, similar to the one I cut off of a middle aged man’s my first day of residency. Suddenly I’m repeating lyrics through my head from a popular song that used to play on the radio the year I started working with one Fox William Mulder, “what is love? baby don’t hurt me.”
I’m humming the tune, and uprooting the cuticles of my nails as I drag the cursor down to the first result. I’m skimming the article of male body language, and I find the one I’m looking for, the one that’s currently jumping off the diving board of my stomach and swimming around like a beached fish, floppy and planitive.
#7 He touches your lower back. This is probably what you want to actually know. When a guy touches your lower back it shows that they’re attracted to you. The lower back is a sensitive part of the body, so you’ll feel their touch more intensely. Oh, and pay attention to the duration of their touch. If they touch your lower back for a longer period of time, it shows their level of attraction. [Read:18 physical aspects of a girl that drive men crazy]
I blink several times, choke on my coffee, and then get up to pace around in circles. What? What? What? What does this mean?
Yesterday he had his hand on my lower back down the entire hallway, and then when we were walking into the motel lobby, and then getting onto the elevator the day before, and leaving Skinner’s office that morning. And then there’s suddenly not a day that I can positively say that his hand did not come into contact with my back, and suddenly my heart is thumping in my ears and I can’t think straight, so I sit back down in my chair, to scan the rest of the article.
#3 He touches your face. A person’s face is what basically makes us attracted to them. Crazy, right? It’s not the six-pack abs or tight ass, it’s the face. Now, if he’s touching your face, this probably means you’re already comfortable with him. We don’t let just anyone touch our face.
The face has a pair of luscious lips on them which is always associated as being sensual and intimate. So, if he touches your face, or strokes your cheeks, he wants to be sexually close with you. [Read: The not-so-obvious things that makes a man attracted to a woman]
Oh, holy crap, how many times has he tucked my hair behind my ear… or the time he brushed my cheek so softly while I was filtering in and out of sleep on a stakeout for a telephone that I thought about that smile he gave me for weeks afterwards.
Then there was the fact that I’d held his hand the very same week, purposefully, intently. Do I even know myself? I gulp down some more coffee, ahh, hot and burning and soothing.
So I sit back and close my eyes, and the next thing I know there’s someone breathing on my ear, and speaking aloud, “When a guy touches your lower back it shows that they’re attracted to you. The lower back is a sensitive part of the body, so you’ll feel their touch more intensely. Oh, and pay attention to the duration of their touch. If they touch your lower back for a longer period of time, it shows their level of attraction…”.
It’s him, he’s reading the article aloud, and I freeze, my eyelids are closed, and my heart is now racing, as he says, “hm, interesting…”. Then he walks away and sits in his own chair, and I have no idea if he knows that I’m awake yet, so I think, maybe, just maybe, we can pretend that that very thing, did not just happen.
I can feel his eyes on me. I can hear the clicking on his keyboard, but I know that he’s looking at me, so I stick my tongue out to lick off the drool that has gathered in the corner of my mouth. Then I sit up and stretch, “Ahh, oh, hey, Mulder. I must’ve dozed off. Came in early to… do some…,” I wave my hands around to motion towards all of the important things that I didn’t do, “stuff.”
I have yet to make eye contact with him, I looked over his head. So I suck it up, and look at him, and he has a dopey smile on his face, one he’s trying to bite back, “Oh, no problem,” he clears his throat, and I feel my heart clenching like it might explode all over his messy desk. I flash him a toothless smile, and stand up to refill my coffee, and I feel his eyes on me as I walk over to the table.
Then he clears his throat again, “So learn anything new today, Scully?”, and my eyes grow wide, and my breathing is quicker, my pulse is pounding in my ears again. But I collect myself and turn around, “What do mean, Mulder?”, his eyebrows are raised, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.
Leaning against the counter, I raise my brow back because he can’t beat me at my own game, but, oh, maybe he can after all. Mulder stands now and walks up to me, smiling and picks up his mug.
The one that says "property of 'US of UFOs',” and I slide over so he can pour himself a cup. He transfers it slowly from the pot into his mug. I walk away to find my chair, and as I'm turning around I feel his hand creep across my waist, onto my back, and he tickles me there. Right there. In the spot. Yes, the small of my back. My lower back.
And I squirm and spit coffee on myself, turn around to catch him smiling, oh, smiling so big, but his cheeks are flushed. Not so cocky after all are we, big boy? He licks his lips, and then walks back to his desk, grabs me a tissue and I take it from him nearly tearing it from his hand, and wipe the coffee off my, fortunately dark blue, blouse while shooting daggers at him. He takes the soiled tissue, and tosses it into the trash, “Touchy, today, are we, Agent Scully?”.
And I gulp because I just realize that I have no idea how much of that article he read. I feel challenged all of a sudden; I could have a man if I wanted one. Mulder doesn’t know who touches me or, where or when, when we’re not at work. So I feel brazen and I purse my lips, “Mulder, did you read an interesting article this morning?”.