by Nostalgia

You decide that the word that fits her best is 'sharp.' She is composed entirely of edges, points, her gaze slices through you like a blade. When she speaks, she shatters you. Sharp, like a broken glass.

You know all about words, words are what you live for. Sharp things cut, sharp things hurt. 'Sharp' is danger, it will make you bleed. When you were a child, "sharp" meant "don't touch". You shouldn't touch T'Pol, she would slice you open.


Her face is bone and angles, the light hits off her skin a few degrees off normal, reminds you that she is strange, that she is wrong. Her body language throws you, leaves you off-kilter. Her inflections are never quite the ones you expect in English. You have no idea how to communicate with her.

Her hair is so short, boyish. You wonder if she uses a comb or a brush. Her hair is thick, dark, almost artificial. You imagine her with long, blonde hair, but the image doesn't fit. You probably wouldn't want her if she was different, if she lost that barbed alien edge. If she kissed you back.


There are plenty of women on this ship. Twenty-eight, including you. Statistically speaking, 2.8 of them will be gay. A few of the others will play for both teams, some might get curious some day. T'Pol, you decide, is none of the above. She is nothing. She is too sharp to be blunted, too icy to be touched. Your fingers would freeze on her skin.

You try to imagine her smiling, you try to imagine her as just another woman. Does she pluck hairs from her body, does she bleed every month? Does that perfect, knife-like body double over in agony until the painkillers kick in? These aren't really things that you could ask her, you mean nothing to her.

Does a snow storm cry?


You could forget about her, if you really tried. You could go to the armoury, find comfort in a soft bed; most people don't manage to hide their feelings like she does. You could take the easy way out. You should. Give up on the impossible, take what's available. Sometimes even beggars have to choose.

After a while, you might not remember why you loved her. After a while, you might move on.

Eventually, you might even forget to cry when she cuts you.


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