"Kiss me," she says. 

Shit. 

She's drunk, of course. And I'm almost sober, which is probably good, but doesn't feel good right now. 

What does she want? A kiss?  

I could kiss her. Chastely, on the forehead. Almost chastely, on the cheek, the brush of lips bearing the faintest hint of something else. Gallantly, on her hand. That would confuse her. Or on the lips, as I imagine she means. 

You know, I'm not even sure if I want to. If any part of me wants to.

There are times when I think I could kiss anyone with vaguely humanoid lips. When I can imagine dragging Neelix into my bed, when the touch of skin on skin is something I long for, the way one yearns to see some combination of elements never before combined. Wanting to see if they will shatter the equipment, or produce something new and wonderful, or do nothing at all. 

I'm not sober then, of course. 

I drink. Just a hypospray, and the effects are gone in a minute. A hypospray, and I can put on my jacket and smooth my hair and rush off to the bridge. Or whatever crisis is in progress. 

Chakotay knows. I can do it quickly, but not fast enough that a visitor to my quarters wouldn't find me still unsteady on my feet, trying to remember where the used hypospray goes. Chakotay is usually the only person who comes to my quarters. 

He never comms me from the bridge, not in the evening, and he doesn't let anyone else do so. "The captain needs her rest," I expect he tells them. The captain needs time to sober up. The captain won't sound too good on a comm link. The captain needs to drink. 

The captain had only just begun, this evening, when Seven arrived from some party on the holodeck. Completely smashed. 

Her eyes remind me of gooseberries. Pale, round. Ever so slightly exophthalmic. 

Kiss me, she says. Is that what she wants, really, a kiss? I see no desire in her eyes, no curiosity even. Challenge? Someone has probably told her that I'm in love with her, that I have the hots for her. That I want her to have my children, that I want to fuck her. Or whatever they think I want to do. The humanoid imagination is vast, and there is nothing like isolation on a starship to really develop it. 

And so she has taken this rumor, which is not completely without foundation, though I certainly don't want children, and has decided that this is the way to deal with it. To confront me, test me. It's a courageous approach; I appreciate that. Maybe she had to get drunk to do it, but I suspect she was drunk before they told her. And I'm sure *they* were drunk. 

I don't know what people will do when they are drunk. I do nothing. I stay in my quarters and just drink, replicating one drink at a time, so that at least Chakotay won't find me with an almost empty bottle. I drink, and I let the alcohol soften the edges, until the blur takes on a clarity of its own. Until thought dissolves, and I feel. Something. 

Contentment. Sexual desire. Loneliness. Optimism. Something sloppy that is reminiscent of love. Something self indulgent which I suppose is regret, or sadness, but is so freeing that I find it pleasurable. 

I could kiss her.

I think it would disappoint her. Oh, she'd have won, in some sense, and everyone likes that. But she'd feel contempt, I think, and I don't really think she wants that. Wants to pity me, look down on me. Have me be just another of the multitude who want to grab her breasts. 

It wasn't that, ever. A sharp intelligence, loneliness that seemed familiar. Power. 

The first time I ever felt--what--romantic love, desire, I don't know--I was a small child. And the object of my affection was a picture in a book my parents had. The book was about the history of mass communication, but I didn't read well yet. I put it on audio, but I couldn't really understand what they were saying. 

The picture was a woman, with a head set. The kind they used to use, before sound subprocessors were developed. There was a separate part for talking and for listening. 

I thought she was so beautiful. I thought she was powerful. I thought she was something marvelous and pioneering and completely in charge. It gave me a strange feeling, looking at the picture, and I would turn it off, and then, later, come back and pull it up again. 

When I was a little older, I had asked my mother to explain the word "sexy" to me. I was having trouble understanding. But then I remembered the picture of the woman with the headset, and understood. 

She was a mid 20^th century telephone operator. Not a prestigious job. A human doing what even an early computer could do. 

I turn back and look at Seven. She has the sense to stay seated.  

"I don't think you need another drink," I say. "Will you excuse me if I have one?" 

She knows enough to see that it isn't a question. 

I don't so much imagine kissing Neelix. It's speciest, perhaps, but we are imprinted early with some idea of what is desirable. Our parents, caretakers, teachers, pictures of telephone operators. 

But I do imagine his arms around me. Only takes a couple of drinks for that. I imagine holding him, and his holding me. I don't imagine that some terrible thing has just happened, or that one of us needs comforting, though certainly terrible things have happened, and we all need comforting. 

I imagine him holding me. He would be surprised if I asked that of him, but not so surprised he wouldn't do it happily. It wouldn't mean anything--he would hold anyone.

But in my mind we would hold each other and then the contact would become an aching longing in the pit of my stomach.  

I could cry in his arms. He wouldn't panic, wouldn't look at me with horror, wouldn't feel he'd won something. He would just hold me, and let me cry, as the tears dissolved the tight ache, sent it through my whole body, where it would become heat. 

A small glass of whiskey, on ice. 

I turn back to Seven. 

"You're drunk," I say. Not an accusation, a statement of fact. 

"Yes," she says. 

"What's the occasion?" 

"A birthday party for Lieutenant Chapman." 

"Ah." I take a sip of my drink and sit down opposite her.  

"I'm not going to kiss you," I say. I don't want to know who put her up to this. I really don't want anything, except to have this be over, to be alone again. 

"Why not?" she asks. 

Fuck you, I think. Why fucking should I? I wanted a friend and I ended up with something between a mid level android and an adolescent. Who treats me as if I were her mother. Except now. I'm tempted to point out that I'm the captain not a camp follower, but I'd have to explain the term. Things lose their impact with explanation. 

"Because I don't want to."  

That shuts her up. 

What do they imagine for us? That I gently initiate her into the art of love? That I cease to be the captain, somehow humanized by lust? Does lust humanize? By itself, or only when requited? Oh, I don't know. 

"They told me that you . . ." 

"I bet they did," I interrupt.

Maybe the doctor didn't intend her clothes to make her look like a robotic whore. Maybe she's supposed to be a superhero. Don't they normally wear skin tight things? Paris was telling me once about some 20^th century character, Batman, and how they had to stuff the actor's shorts so that he would equal his sidekick. He probably thought he was shocking me with this information. Paris is one of the most innocent people I know. 

Then again, I'm an alcoholic who has fantasies about crying in the arms of her alien cook. 

And morale officer. Let's not forget morale officer. 

Where were we? We were going to not discuss how various members of my crew think I should spend my free time. We were going to not have an argument in which I explain that I'm the captain, and can't have sex with her due to some regulation, and she explains why it doesn't matter.

 Would I like to have sex with her? Would there be a point? I can have sex with myself, a process which certainly has efficiency to recommend it. That should be a persuasive argument to her, our efficiency expert, but I don't think I'll make it. Generally people don't want to hear that you have sex alone, though I'm not really sure why. 

She is sitting quietly on my sofa, looking as if she is going to throw up. I hope she doesn't. 

I think I once thought it would be fun, going to bed with her. Once thought she loved me, perhaps that she desired me. I watched her. More recently I have watched her for any hint of the interest that I once thought was there. Competition, hero worship, imprinting. 

Who am I to talk of Paris's innocence, me, the half-drunk advocate of sex with love? Oh, I know that bodies can do amazing things without love. Know that attraction can be searing. I know it, but I can't imagine it, can't feel it. It seems as if it would be simply tiring, embarrassing, difficult. Inefficient. 

I think Neelix loves me. Perhaps he loves everyone; certainly he loves Tuvok, which I find quite wonderful. 

Her head is resting on her arm. 

What would we talk about, Seven and I? I could explain things to her. She could do complex math problems in her head. That would be impressive, but not very interactive. I could do math problems in my head, and she could tell me if I'm right. But then I couldn't drink, because once I drink, the numbers blur too. 

Or we could not talk at all, just have lots of athletic sex, dress and say goodbye. It doesn't sound that appealing at this minute, but perhaps I'm just out of shape.

She has fallen asleep. I ask the computer to raise the ambient temperature.