Your hands on my shoulders, fingers almost bruising, your mouth on mine. Need, fear, loneliness, I don't know. I mistake it for passion.

At four in the afternoon, in a house with no furniture, you pull me to you. I let you, and I let you kiss me. I want your desire. I want something. So much is changed, so much is gone.

I stayed here last night. There's a mattress on the bedroom floor, a view of the bay, a faint smell of paint.

You tremble, but I don't know what you need. Not my touch. Your body is beautiful. My hands trail over your pale skin. I can imagine fingers doing the same to me, teasing. The thought arouses me, but my caresses do not move you. You seem to be thinking about the sensations. I show you what I like, and you do it. With great efficiency. Of course.

Afterwards, you fall asleep. Physiologically I'm the one who should be relaxed, but I'm not, and I certainly don't feel like sleeping.

I put on some clothes, get a cup of coffee, watch you sleeping in my bed, childlike. In the late afternoon light, you look too pale, your features unformed. I think that I probably love you, but not in the right way for this.

I tell myself I should have said no, but I know it would have been over then, that you would have walked out forever. I was too selfish to let you go. I'm not proud of myself.

You wake, make plans to help me unpack, to come for dinner. You want me to show you San Francisco. I do.

You make love to me in exactly the same way each time. Efficient. My touch does little for you. You don't mind. I feel incompetent.

I invite friends to dinner. You will be there, of course. You want to cook. You are a worse cook than I because you don't even know when the food tastes wrong. I say I've already hired the caterer.

I dress carefully. One friend I haven't seen since our return. I am wearing black, my grandmother's pearls, drinking white wine as I do my hair. I ask you to fasten the pearls. You do. I wish you would kiss my neck, or watch me dress, or want me not to dress at all. But you are helpful.

The dinner goes well. But I think I want my friends to see you as my lover, and they don't. I say nothing. "Your protegee," says one, on leaving, "the girl . . ." I even put my hand on your arm at one point, but I think it is seen as friendly. Or perhaps unrequited lust. Which perhaps it is.

As I undress, I realize I am aroused. My own fingers, against my skin, removing clothes, excite me. I leave the pearls on and crawl into the bed beside you. Your body temperature is hotter than mine, uncomfortable. I move away. After a while I, too, sleep.

You think I ignore you, and you're right. When there are other people around, I often talk to them. Sometimes I am tired of explaining things to you, tired of your naivety, your careful analysis of everything. You read books and after know nothing but the plot.

You want me to be yours in some way I don't understand.

***

It is winter now. It rains a lot. It has been three months since you seduced me. Or I took advantage of you. Or whatever happened.

Your studies take up a great deal of your time, but still you spend three or four evenings a week with me.

I am going to be leaving in a couple of days. Just for a few months, but still you are furious. I tell myself that you are angry because you will miss me, but still I feel annoyed.

You are sitting on my bed. You start again, a tedious litany of reasons against my commanding this mission. I try to silence you by kissing you. My lips on your neck, your throat. You sit on the edge of the bed, and I am on my knees, kissing your collarbones, the tops of your breasts, running my fingertips over your skin, wanting you.

My hair brushes your breasts. I can feel the friction of your skin against my lips. My breathing is quick when I look up at you.

"It's not an efficient use of Starfleet's resources," you continue.

I stand up, my eyes beginning to tear. You know that I'm angry, though I say nothing. You get up, dress, and leave. You look at me as if I had betrayed you. I feel like hell. But the bed is mine.

***

No Aphrodisiac, the Whitlams