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Tired

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She’s drunk. He’s drunk. Fucking wild. As the dark brown liquor trickles down her throat she imagines this is what freedom must feel like. Buzzing, warm, nostalgic, overwhelming, choices, a supersized capacity to love, everything looks familiar and comfortable and beautiful. Mulder. Looks beautiful. Those fat lips, wet pink between the stubble. Like a cunt, she thinks. Then giggles. Laughter spills out and Mulder grips her fingers so hard the fake wedding and engagement rings press into her bones. He’s laughing with her, but he doesn’t know why, but it’s good to see him like this.

“Cunt,” she whispers and the bartender stops wiping the glass and glares at her. She blows him a kiss and Mulder rests his head on the beer mat that shows a photo of a racing car, she doesn’t know what type. Sleek and red. Phallic.

“Cock,” she says next and Mulder’s shoulders bunch up under his gray tee that fit so fucking well. His laughter is throaty, wheezy. Her jaw aches from grinning. She rests her forehead on his bent elbow and inhales the hairs of his arm before blowing them out. Back and forth. Back and forth they go. In and out. Like their life. This motel. That town. This car. That truck. This job. That midnight escape.

A tear slips over the hot skin of her cheek and dribbles onto the back of his hand. He twists his head and she’s suddenly dry, her throat scratchy, her temples pounding. Winding a lock of her hair around his fingers he pouts. The bartender shakes his head with a weary sigh.

“Tired,” she whispers and Mulder nods, eyes as wet as his lips. “So very tired.”