Agnosia
Sometimes she forgets her body.
She dresses it, washes it, feeds it with take-away and garbage from political dinners and the Hall of Education cafeteria. But it's been years since someone touched it with affection.
Even Richard. It's friendship, it's scratching an itch, it's a reminder of long ago times, but it isn't love. Lately it isn't even lust. They kiss when he closes his door because that's what almost ex-lovers do, a meaningless ritual.
She wonders if the cancer isn't her body's attempt to reassert itself. They were a demonstrative family, always touching. She held Mother's hand in the final moments. The police told her that Cheryl and Sandra had been holding hands at the time of impact. No one holds her hand for longer than the few seconds protocol dictates. Her press secretary tells her there's something off about her handshake, that it comes from her upper arm and not her wrist. She's never noticed. She doesn't care.
She doesn't think twice about climbing down ladders in her short skirt and high heels. No one is going to look. No one has for a long time. She'd taken that into account when she packed; nothing about this trip is a surprise. She's read all about the Galactica and its crew.
Still, she's taken aback when she meets its commander. Yes, he's the unbending military type she expected. Yes, he's old-fashioned and afraid of computers. But he's all of a piece. He doesn't apologize, barely explains. He has large hands, a large voice, large ideas. He moves with the rolling grace of a boxer.
She hates her body for its betrayal, for repaying neglect with an eviction notice. The commander is at home in his own skin. She's forgotten where home is.
Even Adama knows not to touch her.
She dresses it, washes it, feeds it with take-away and garbage from political dinners and the Hall of Education cafeteria. But it's been years since someone touched it with affection.
Even Richard. It's friendship, it's scratching an itch, it's a reminder of long ago times, but it isn't love. Lately it isn't even lust. They kiss when he closes his door because that's what almost ex-lovers do, a meaningless ritual.
She wonders if the cancer isn't her body's attempt to reassert itself. They were a demonstrative family, always touching. She held Mother's hand in the final moments. The police told her that Cheryl and Sandra had been holding hands at the time of impact. No one holds her hand for longer than the few seconds protocol dictates. Her press secretary tells her there's something off about her handshake, that it comes from her upper arm and not her wrist. She's never noticed. She doesn't care.
She doesn't think twice about climbing down ladders in her short skirt and high heels. No one is going to look. No one has for a long time. She'd taken that into account when she packed; nothing about this trip is a surprise. She's read all about the Galactica and its crew.
Still, she's taken aback when she meets its commander. Yes, he's the unbending military type she expected. Yes, he's old-fashioned and afraid of computers. But he's all of a piece. He doesn't apologize, barely explains. He has large hands, a large voice, large ideas. He moves with the rolling grace of a boxer.
She hates her body for its betrayal, for repaying neglect with an eviction notice. The commander is at home in his own skin. She's forgotten where home is.
Even Adama knows not to touch her.