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You pride yourself on your instincts.
Otherwise, you wouldn't be a reporter. Otherwise,
you'd write fiction based on your own definition of
truth.
But you know the truth when you see it, so you're a
reporter.
There are certain things that you know. You know that
the meteor caused things more mystical and bizarre
than a couple of deaths. You know that the Kents are
secretive about Clark's adoption for a reason.
You know that the way Lex looks at Clark is more than
friendly. You know things about their relationship.
You don't need to walk in on them to know that there
would be something to walk in on.
You're a reporter; you have your instincts.
So, you know that Clark and Lex are linked. And you
know that Lana is perpetually oblivious to what is
right in front of her face.
You think you know a few things about Lana, in fact.
You know that she's smart, pretty, full of life.
Most people know that, really. Clark knows that, even
when wearing his Lex-colored glasses.
But you know other things, just like any good
reporter. You know them from observation, from
watching, from your fine-tuned common sense.
>From your instincts.
You know that there's more sadness to her than her
bright smile suggests. You know that there's more to
her than cheering, popularity, veiled ambition. You
know that she's more than the sum of her perfect
parts.
You know how her hip curves. You know how her teeth
sparkle under the sun. You know that she prefers
cherry lip-gloss, but can sometimes be seem applying
strawberry. You know that her hair is soft, and that
she can run her fingers through it with ease.
You know that what she has with Whitney isn't going to
last. You know that she'll bounce right back. You know
that everyone will be after her.
You know that she's sweet, good, honest, beautiful.
You know that she's perfect.
You know that she'll always look this perfect. In
twenty years, when you're worn down by life, work,
broken relationships, she'll still look fresh and
clean.
You know her well.
But you can't pinpoint how you feel. You can't say how
your knowledge changes you.
You know that you don't want to thrust yourself
in-between Clark and Lex. You know that you have more
respect for Lana.
You know that you like her, despite the perfection
that perpetually sheathes her from the outside world.
But you're not sure how much you like her. How much of
your thoughts are just judging the aesthetics of
someone in front of you.
You're not quite sure if you want to touch her hip,
taste that lip gloss, run your fingers through dark
hair.
Your instincts, though, are saying that you do.
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