Most people, when they think of weddings, conjure up images of some super-expensive soiree complete with the bride (in some frothy confection of white tulle) and the groom (in a crisp black tuxedo, of course) exchanging shiny gold rings in front of a dour man of the cloth and 700 or so of their closest friends.

Not my idea of a good time.  Luckily, it's not Donna's fantasy wedding either.

We went decidedly low-key, just us, a Justice of the Peace, and the required witnesses in a tiny town up in Maine.  Of course, we had to revise the Lyman-Moss Defense (and, yes, I realize that she prefers to call it the "Moss-Lyman Defense," but that is completely inaccurate) to overcome new complications from the Cregg-McGarry team.

We're talking precautions worthy of the paranoid fringe here.

But as it turns out, planning the wedding wasn't nearly as hard as convincing Donnatella Moss to marry me in the first place.

***

"We're getting married," Josh says.

God help us, Josh the politician has returned.  Josh the brilliant strategist.  Yes, the man responsible for the president's secret plan to fight inflation has decided to take control of my future.

I'm doomed.

"Married?" I echo.  "You and me?  Till death us do part and all that?"

"Brilliant, huh?"  He's too damn happy.  This is the happiest I've seen him since before the shooting.  He starts to jump out of bed -- he plots better when he paces -- when apparently every bone in his body screams, "Fourteen hours of surgery!" and he falls back against the headboard.  I'd rush to help him, but I've just remembered how much I'm capable of wanting to strangle him.

And that would hardly avoid the scandal we're supposed to be plotting against.

"Josh, this is the worst idea I've ever heard."

"Why?" he asks.  His face sort of falls, and I have a momentary pang of guilt.

Momentary.

"It's marriage, Joshua.  It's serious.  People plan marriage."

"We're in the planning stages right now."

I miss those glorious days in ICU when he couldn't talk.

"They plan for years, Josh.  They get to know each other."

"How could we possibly know each other better?"

Good question.

"Sex," I say.

Good answer.

"We're compatible," he says with a grin.

"We do not know that for a fact."

"Yes, we do."

Now here's the weird thing:  Yes, we do.  The way we walk together, the way we look at each other, the rhythm we have when we're talking -- all that's missing is a flashing neon sign saying, "You were meant to have mind-blowing sex with this man."

"Even so," I say, cause there's no use arguing this particular issue, "marriage is a life-long commitment.  I'm not getting married so I can have a fling with my boss and then get a divorce when it's over."

"Well, I'm not getting married so I can have a quickie with my assistant in between meetings, so we're even."

"No, you're getting married so you can head off a PR disaster.  It hardly makes a woman feel cherished, Josh."

"I'd do the whole down-on-one-knee thing, but that's a little difficult at the moment."

"No, you wouldn't.  And if you're playing the near-death experience card, that's just not fair."

"So you're saying yes?"

"I'm not saying no.  Yet."

"You mean I win?"

"Not that easily.  I have demands."

"Just listen to her," Josh says.  "She's already talking like a politician's wife."

"First condition:  I keep my name."

"Donnatella's a nice name.  I've always been fond of it."

"I was referring to Moss."

"Are you open to compromise on this issue?"

"Possibly.  What's your offer?"

"Moss-Lyman.  With a hyphen."

"Just Moss at work."

"Agreed.  Then it's settled."

"Not so fast, Josh.  I have another condition."

"You would."

"You have to say it, Josh."

"Oh, Donna, no.  Things have never gone well when I've tried to say it.  Ask Mandy."

"Just this once, Josh.  Just in private.  You're off the hook for the next fifty years, but I'm hearing it once or I walk."

"This is a deal breaker.  That's what you're saying?"

"Yes."

"Well, if I have to."  He looks like a kid who's just been ordered to eat his spinach.  He scrunches up his face like he's figuring how to pronounce the dreaded words.  Then he says, "Okay, here it is.  Donnatella Moss, I am not indifferent toward you.  In fact, I am remarkably fond of you.  One might even say I have a deep, abiding affection for you that some people, myself included, might refer to as love.  Nothing personal, of course."

Somewhere in there I think he said it.  I go over the words once more just to make sure.  I mean, this is the deal breaker, after all.

"Well, all right then.  We have a deal."

***

"Not so fast," I say.  "I have a few conditions of my own."

Donna gives me her skeptical face.  "You do?"

I think I may be on shaky ground.  "Yes," I say anyway.

"This is your idea."

"So?"

"So you asked me."

"Again:  So?"

"So you can't then impose conditions."

"Why not?"

"Because..."  She shrugs.  "Because you can't."

"Don't you want a marriage based on equality?"

"You're my boss, Josh."

"Ooh, I get to order you around at home, too?"

"I wouldn't count on it."

"Okay," I nod, victorious.  "Then I get to negotiate some conditions, too."

She crosses her arms.  "And what conditions do you have?"

"To start, I think there should be some sort of coffee agreement."

"Coffee agreement?"

"Yes.  Something like 'both parties agree that you, Donnatella Moss, will bring me, Josh Lyman, coffee every morning--'"

"I don't bring you coffee, Josh."

"I know," I say.  "And you see that I have to stop at Starbucks every morning."

"This affects me how?"

"Aren't you responsible for me getting to work on time?"

"As your assistant, or as your wife?"

I am momentarily struck dumb by the sound of Donnatella Moss saying "as your wife" to me.

"Either," I manage.  "Both."

"No," she says.  "I'm responsible for beating you to the office if that's at all possible.  Two entirely different things."

"Okay," I say.  "Could we add an amendment that you'll at least wake me up when you roll out of bed?"

Donna in my bed.

Wow.

She looks as dazed as I feel.  "Okay," she nods.  "Is that it?"

"No," I say.  "We need to resolve the coffee issue."

"There is no coffee issue, Josh, because I am not bringing you coffee."

I refuse to lose the possibility of All Donna Moss, All the Time over coffee.

"Fine," I say.  "Can you at least program my coffeemaker?"

Donna grins at me.  "You can't program your coffeemaker?"

"It's a complicated piece of machinery."

"It's a coffeemaker."

"Are you going to stand here and argue with me, or agree to my terms?"

"Can't I do both?"

"Donna!"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'll program the coffeemaker."

***

"So when are we going to tell everyone?" I ask.

"Tell everyone what?" Josh replies.

"That we're getting married.  When are we breaking the news?"

"Oh that," Josh says.  "We're not."

"Excuse me?"

"The moral high ground, remember, Donna?  That's the strategy."

"Which is why we're getting married.  Or so I thought."

"But, see," Josh says, "that's the best part.  We don't tell them.  We act single at work.  As far as everyone knows, nothing's changed."

"As usual, Joshua, I fail to understand your logic."

"It's simple really.  We go on like always, the model of professionalism and efficiency."

"That's what we are?"

"That's what we've always been."

"'Cause I thought we were quirky yet lovable."

"And then," Josh says, ignoring me in a quirky yet lovable manner, "after a suitable length of time, we make our announcement.  We tell them we've been married.  We wave the marriage license in their faces.  They can't break us up because we've proved that our personal relationship does not have a negative impact on our professional relationship."

"There's a flaw in your reasoning."

"Where?"

"I'm not sure.  But there is always a flaw in your reasoning."

"Okay, here's the thing: the smart-mouthed assistant attitude?  It's been very cute.  In a wife, however, a man expects a more supportive attitude."

"Not if he's marrying me."

"Fair point.  But this will work.  I'm sure."

"That's what you said about--"

"Not the Ohio primary again, Donna!  And I still say Toby was responsible for that."

"Whatever.  And for future reference?"

"Yes?"

"This is my supportive wife face."

"It looks remarkably like your smart-mouthed assistant face."

"I'm a subtle woman, Josh.  How long do we have to keep up this charade?"

"That's the part I haven't quite worked out.  Six or seven months maybe?"

"Six or seven months?"

"Well, I figure that takes us to the holidays.  Somehow making this announcement on Christmas Eve appeals to me, you know?"

I grin.  I can't help it.  I'm just incredibly amused.  Josh amuses me.

My husband-to-be amuses me.

"Josh Lyman, you're a romantic!"

He looks offended.  "I am not."

"Josh?"

"Yes?"

"Agree that you're a romantic.  I guarantee you won't regret it."

The light dawns.  "Oh well, sure then. Joshua Lyman, king of rom--"

I have finally found an effective way of shutting him up.

***

"Okay," says Sam.  "This has progressed beyond subtext to, like... actual text."

I am loathe to stop kissing Donna -- which is by far my new favorite thing -- long enough to point out how stupid Sam's sentence is.

"Go away," I mumble.

Donna pulls back.  "Hello, Sam."

Sam is standing there, grinning fatuously.  "This is really just too cute."

"It's really not," I say. I'm a bit grouchy.  "What are you doing here?"

"CJ's on her way."

Donna is back in the visitor's chair, her suit straightened, before I can even process Sam's words.

"How nice," Donna says.

"Yeah."  I am glaring at Sam.  It's not his fault, but I'm glaring at him anyway.

"Hey," he protests.  "I gave you two hours and sufficient warning.  You know how lucky you are I walked in on -- on that and not CJ?"

"What," says a familiar voice, "exactly did you walk in on?"

Uh-oh.

Donna and I exchange a look.

"CJ," Sam says.  "We didn't hear you come in."

"I'm very quiet," she says.  "What were Josh and Donna doing that was so shocking?"

"Nothing," Sam answers too quickly.

"CJ," Donna says.  "Josh was just..."  She hesitates and flicks a glance my way.  "Well, he had to use the bed pan."

"Donna!"

I am horrified.  This is how she chooses to throw CJ off the scent?  Which, I should note, is a regrettable metaphor to employ here.

CJ still looks skeptical.  Sam, on the other hand, is grinning again.

"Really?" CJ asks.

"Yup," Sam chimes in.  I am suddenly apprehensive.  He looks way too amused with himself.  "And the reason I said they should be glad it was me and not you is that--"

"Josh accidentally flashed us," Donna interrupts.

"DONNA!"

"Really?"  CJ is finding this very funny.

"No," I say.  "Not really."

I am so not amused.

Donna pats my hand.  "Josh is just a little embarrassed."

"I am not embarrassed."  I'm yelling now.  "Because I did not flash anyone!"

Sam elbows CJ and speaks in a low tone.  "He made us promise not to tell anyone, but since you overheard..."

"Sam!"

I cannot believe these people.  And they claim to be my friends?

CJ is snickering behind her hand.

"It's okay, Josh," Sam tells me.  "There's no reason to be embarrassed."

"I'm not embarrassed!"  Still yelling.

Donna and Sam are grinning at each other.

"This is absurd," I say.  "CJ, they're lying!"

"Sure, Josh."

She doesn't believe me.

"Well," Sam says, "my work here is done."

CJ glances at Donna.  "Margaret said to tell you the blue folder is missing.  She said you'd know what that means?"

"Yes," Donna nods.

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"I've got to go find it," she answers with a look of regret.

"Why do you have to go find it?"  I think I may sound a bit pitiful.  But, dammit, this woman just agreed to marry me, and now she's leaving.  I am pitiful.

"I'll be back in a little bit, Josh," she says with a small smile.  "If I don't go now, Margaret or Leo will be here within the hour, panicking."

"Panicking over a missing blue folder?" Sam asks from the doorway.

"Yes," Donna nods solemnly.  She grabs her keys and heads for the hall.

"What's in the blue folder?" CJ asks.

"Take-out menus," Donna tosses over her shoulder.

God, I love this woman.

***

I'm getting married.

I'm getting married to Josh.

I have agreed to marry Josh Lyman.

What the hell was I thinking?

I mean, Josh is on a lot of painkillers and he has a delicate system to begin with.  He can always claim he was drugged when he suggested it.  What's my excuse?

Married.  To Josh.

Sex.  With Josh.

Sex for the rest of my life with Joshua.

I need to sit down and catch my breath.

I need to plan.

There's so much to plan.

For one thing, where are we going to live?  With this whole secrecy thing, we can't live together, can we?  What are we going to do about that?

Children.  We have not even discussed children.  Does he want children?  Do I?

'Cause I'm thinking it could be a problem.  If I go into labor in the White House, the secret's pretty much going to be over.

And what about filing taxes?  Will we have to file jointly?  Then comes the annual financial disclosure, and the secret's out.

Sex with Josh.

For the rest of my life.

Josh in love with me.

For the rest of my life.

Donnatella Moss-Lyman.  With a hyphen.

I need to buy stationary.

***

Donnatella Moss has agreed to marry me.

I think I may be in shock.

I'm sitting in my hospital bed wracking my brain for the perfect place to get married.

To get married.  That sounds strange.

Kind of daunting, actually.

So, okay, I'm getting married.

Really, this was my idea; I should not be quite so nervous.

But anyway, my current problem is where to get married.  Since I won the news cycle (and how annoying is it that I get the cover of Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News and World Report simultaneously, not for my many political accomplishments, but for stepping into a hail of a bullets?), I'm guessing taking Donna to my local temple isn't in the cards.

So it's a clandestine wedding.  Which sounds kind of sexy, actually.

Clandestine.  Secretive.  Undercover.

I'm thinking I spent too many hours as a child watching The Avengers.  Hmmm, Donnatella Moss in head-to-toe black leather.  There's a happy image.

I'm also thinking out-of-state wedding.  Somewhere along the coast -- maybe up in northern New England.  An obscure bed-and-breakfast somewhere near Ogunquit, Maine.

A cliffside wedding.

Holy shit, I'm planning my wedding.

I can do this.

Luckily, Donna arrives at the hospital to pick me up -- I'm finally being released today -- before I can give in to sheer panic.

"You ready?" she asks.

"Yes," I say.

I must look strange, because she glares at me.  "You're panicking."

"No, I'm planning."

"What are you planning?"

I take a deep breath.  "Our wedding."

Our wedding.  How surreal is that?

She smiles at me.  "Oh."

"Oh?"

"I'm just surprised, Josh."

"Why are you surprised?"

"I thought your mind would be more on your recovery than the--"  She stops for a moment.  "--than our wedding."

I grin at her.  I can't believe she's going to marry me.

"I've been thinking that since we can't do the big church, white-dress thing -- although I've got to say I'm looking forward to peeling a white dress off of you."  She's blushing.  I am the man.  "Maybe we should go somewhere totally out of the way."

"Okay," she says.  "What do you have in mind?"

"For the wedding, or for just after?"

She barely moves, just shifts her weight slightly to one side; but suddenly, she is walking seduction.  I may be salivating.

"Either one," she says, her big eyes blinking lazily at me.

It takes me a moment to frame a response.  "Wedding," I say.  "Coast."

"Coast?" she asks, straightening up.  Back to business.  Which is good, though, because I was just about to jump her.

"How does Maine strike you?" I am giving her my patently irresistible face.

"Maine?" she repeats, with a dubious look.

"What's wrong with Maine?"

"There's nothing wrong with Maine.  I'm sure Maine is a perfectly nice state."

"Well?"

"Well, what?" she asks.

"Well, then, why can't we get married there?"

"Because, Josh, I know what you're thinking."

"Oh, you do?"

"Yes."

"What am I thinking?"

"You're thinking that I'm going to be sad that I can't invite 700 people to some big, crazy church wedding, so you'll make it up to me by having some candlelit, cliffside wedding."

Okay, so she does know what I'm thinking.  I am slightly fearful.

"No, I'm not," I lie.

"Josh."

"Okay, yes," I admit.  "Is that so horrible of me?"

"No, Josh, but I don't care that much about the actual wedding."  She puts a hand on my arm and drops her voice a few octaves.  "I don't want you wasting your strength climbing up some stupid cliff.  You're going to need your energy."  She raises one eyebrow.  "You know, for just after."

I cannot wait to get married.

***

Ocean cliffs.  Candlelight.  What a time for sweet-guy Josh to make an appearance!

Unfortunately, there is no such person as common-sense-guy Josh.

Does he want to kill himself before we even get to the wedding night?  He was just operated on for a collapsed lung and a damaged artery, but does he let that stop him?  Does he take that into account?

Has he even talked to his doctors about whether he should -- whether we should--

Dammit, do I have to remind him of everything?

Of course I do.

"Josh," I say.  I'm trying to be as nonchalant as possible.  I congratulate myself for not blushing.  "Have your doctors told you anything about sex?"

"No," he says, and he stretches out that one syllable as though he finds my sensible question just too damn amusing.  "But then I had that talk with my dad when I was twelve."

"You know what I mean."

"I'm actually pretty sure I don't."  He's not looking at me.  The big liar.

"Because, you know, you're not exactly a young man anymore, and maybe you shouldn't be putting a strain on your heart."

"Don't worry about it," he says.

"I wouldn't want anything to happen to you.  Not until you've changed your will in my favor."

"Hey, I can take it."

"I've no doubt.  And while I am used to doing all your work for you, Joshua, just on this one occasion I'd like some reassurance that you can dish it out.  So to speak."

"You're going to make a big deal out of this, aren't you?"

"No," I answer.  "I'm just going to find a doctor and ask some very direct questions if you don't give me an answer."

***

I am stuck in the midst of what promises to be the most humiliating conversation of my life.

"You are not asking my doctor about my sexual fitness," I say.  Donna opens her mouth to respond, but I just talk louder.  "Which," I add defensively, "I assure you, is top notch."

Donna looks like she's fighting a grin.  I am not amused.

"I'm sure it is, Josh."

That sounded rather indulgent.

"It is," I insist.

"Josh, you were in surgery for fourteen hours."

"So?"

"So you're still healing.  It wouldn't be surprising if you weren't quite..." she shrugs, "up to par."

"I am up to par," I say.  "I'm above par."

"I thought the thing was to be under par."

"Donna."

"You know, like in golf--"

"Donna!"

"Okay, Josh."

"Seriously, everything's in working order."

"That's not what I was asking."

Could I just go ahead and die now?  Please.

"What were you asking?"

"I was asking if..."  She looks a bit embarrassed herself.  "If, on our wedding night, I'm going to have to do most of the work."

A stray bolt of lightning would be great right about now.

"Donna--"

"Josh," she interrupts.  "I have no problems with that."

"Well," I say sarcastically.  "That's good to know."

"Really, Josh, the female-dominant position--"

"I beg you to stop talking," I say.  Shout, really.

Donna looks startled.  "What's wrong?"

"All the doctor said is that I should be careful not to overdo it."

"That's it?"

"Yes."  My face feels hot.  "That's it."

"But--"

"He said I'm the best judge of, you know, how much I can do at any given time."

She's blushing.  "At any given time?"

"Please, Donna, just trust me on this."

***

I consider myself a feminist.

I was not raised that way.  My family tends to have very conservative opinions on social issues.  Which is why, these days, they tend to be alternately proud that my career is going so well and horrified that I'm part of the Bartlet administration.

No, I have come to my feminism the hard way -- by making one colossally stupid blunder and living with the consequences.

Take my advice on this:  If a man suggests that you drop out of college and pay his way through med school, don't do it.

I like to think that I learned from that experience.  I like to think that no man -- not even Josh, thank you very much -- could convince me to do anything that stupid again.

Oh sure, some of you are snickering right now.  You're thinking, "She loves Josh.  She's about to make a complete ass of herself over him too."

Don't count on it.

Yes, I will admit that I'm in what one might call a blissful frame of mind.  I am not, however, mindless.  Note the difference:  When I was twenty and stupid, I thought the guy I loved was perfect.  Now?  Perfect?  Josh?  You must be kidding.

I am in love with a complicated man.  A man who can be thoughtful and sweet but who is more often inconsiderate and self-centered.  A man who is decent, (too) hardworking and caring.  A man who will not hesitate to fight dirty when he has to.  A man whose ego requires its own zip code and whose wit should be registered as a lethal weapon.  I am in love with Joshua Lyman, Master Politician and Legend In His Own Mind.

See?  Basically, I still have my wits about me.

At twenty, I'll admit, I had this image of The Wedding.  You know the one -- the long white gown with the veil and the train, the hundreds of guests, all eyes turning toward you as you walk down the aisle, the traditional vows.

What the hell was I thinking?

If I hadn't had my mind on The Big Day, maybe I would have realized earlier that the prospective groom was no prize and that a lifetime of the relationship I had then was too high a price to pay for one moment of glory.

So now I'm a much smarter woman.  A grown up.  In love with another complicated, flawed yet strangely lovable grownup.  What kind of wedding would I want, you might ask?

One with Josh.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize that this is exactly the kind of wedding I want: one that is private, one that is simply Josh and me saying the things we need to say to each other.  I don't want long white gowns, bridesmaids, flowers and all that other nonsense.  This is not Barbie and Ken Play House in DC.

This is Josh and me.

This is private.

This is sacred.

***

It doesn't take me long to locate the ring.

My grandmother--

I should clarify something.  My mother's parents, Eleora and Mateusz Gabrielski, died before I was born.  My grandfather was not a rich man, but he managed to get his wife and child -- my mother -- out of Poland in time.  My grandmother died not long after, and my mother was raised by her aunts in New York City.  My grandfather fared worse; he died at Treblinka.

My father's parents, Nagida and Gavril Lyman, both survived Birkenau.  So when I say 'my grandmother,' I'm talking about the only grandparents I knew -- my paternal grandparents.

My grandmother had this amazing jewelry box.  My grandfather made it out of this dark wood, and he carved her favorite flowers into the front of it.  When I was little, I loved to open all of the secret compartments he'd built into it.

When my grandmother died, my grandfather put the ring he'd given her back in its small "Klein and Sons Jewelers" box, nestled the box into one of the secret compartments, and reverently placed the jewelry box on the mantle.  It was out of my reach, and by the time I was tall enough to touch the jewelry box, I was more interested in Mary Eleanor O'Shaughnessy than in some old jewelry.  Or our family's history.

I was 23 and working on my J.D. at Yale when my grandfather died.  I attended the funeral and sat Shiva with my parents, but I couldn't really comprehend his death until my father handed that jewelry box to me.  Apparently, my grandmother had instructed my grandfather that I was to be the recipient because she knew how much I loved it.

I waited to open the jewelry box until I got back to school.  Inside it were some beaded necklaces I vaguely remember my grandmother wearing, a few old Polish coins, and that Klein box.

I didn't open the Klein box.

The wooden jewelry box has moved to each apartment with me, taking its place on the mantle or bookshelf -- once even relegated to the kitchen counter -- but it was always by far the nicest of my possessions.  And I have never once opened the Klein box to see my grandmother's ring.  I have never had a reason.

Now I do.

My hands are trembling, and I have a bit of trouble with the Klein box.  I take a deep breath, then open it.  The ring sparkles up at me, still surprisingly shiny against the matte black.

It is a gold ring -- antique gold strands woven together to create the band, then fanning into a lacy design to hold the modest diamond.

It is beautiful.

I am six again, my grandmother rubbing a bump on my knee and speaking to me in Polish, her ring winking up at me.

"Josh," Donna says, poking her head into the living room.  "I unpacked some of your stuff and ordered -- Are you all right?"

I look up at her.  "What?"

"Are you okay, Josh?"  She takes a step into the room.

"Yeah," I say.  "I'm fine."

"'Cause you look a little--"

"I'm fine."

"Okay."  She turns to leave.  "I'm going to--"

"Donna."

She stops and looks back at me.  "Yes?"

"Come here."

"Josh, I just ordered food--"

"Donna."  I lift my hand towards her, drawing her attention to the ring.

She is suddenly very still.  "Josh?"

I give her a reassuring smile.  "Don't you want your ring?"

She stares at me.  "Josh?"

I'm grinning.  "I think we've established my name, Donnatella."

"Joshua," she admonishes, finally moving towards me.  "A ring?"

"Traditionally, the groom presents the bride with--"

"Josh."

"Yes," I nod.  "A ring."

I extend my hand towards her.

She reaches my side and gazes down at the box in my palm.

"It's beautiful," she breathes.

"It was my grandmother's," I answer softly.

Her hand flutters to her mouth; and when she looks up at me, her eyes are wet.  "Josh, I don't know what to say."

There's a first.

"Try it on," I suggest.

She stares at me for a moment, then nods.

I watch her fumble slightly, then pull the ring from its box.  She glances up at me again.

I smile at her.  This is the ring I want to give to Donnatella Moss.

Donna takes a deep, shuddering breath and slips it onto her ring finger.

This is the ring I want my wife to wear.

***

My wedding ring.

I'm going to wear this ring for the rest of my life.

This ring belonged to a woman I never met, who was born in a very different time and place and who survived a worse horror than I can even begin to understand.  I have absolutely nothing in common with the woman who originally wore this ring, except for this: she loved Josh Lyman too.

I sit down on the edge of Josh's sofa and play with the ring on my finger.  It's a little too big for me, and I keep twisting it around.  It's stunning: so beautifully designed, so very elegant, such an amazing piece of work.

Josh's grandmother's ring.

I may cry.

Oh wait.  I seem to be doing that already.

"Donnatella?"  Josh sounds unsure of himself, hesitant.  Under any other circumstances, I would be getting a great deal of amusement from that.  But this is not something to tease him over.

He sits down beside me and takes my hand.  We're both looking at the ring -- at our entwined hands.  "It's too big," he says.  "We should take it and get it sized."

"Oh, no.  We can't do that.  Look how -- it would ruin the design.  I can't do that."

I look back up at Josh, who is grinning.  "It's your ring now.  You can do whatever you want with it, Donna."

"Josh," I say softly, because I'm so afraid he won't understand what I mean.  "I can't wear it.  Not yet."

His face falls.  He's given me this incredible gift, and I'm rejecting it.  I rush to finish what I'm saying; I can't bear the disappointment I see on his face.  "I want to wear it, Josh.  I want that so much.  But how can I show up at work wearing a wedding ring?  What are people going to say?"

Josh nods, but he doesn't seem able to speak.  And then inspiration hits me.

"A chain."

"What?"

"I'll get a gold chain.  I'll put the ring on a chain, and I'll wear it around my neck.  Under my clothes.  No one but us will even know I'm wearing it."

Josh smiles.  "Could I talk you into wearing it on your finger when we're alone?"

It's not that big.  I can wear it without worrying about it falling off.

"That could be arranged," I say.

Josh is still smiling at me, in a way that is going to keep us from dinner indefinitely, when the obvious question occurs to me.

"How on earth did she hide it?" I ask.

"What?"

"In a concentration camp.  How did she manage to keep this?"

"She didn't," Josh says.  He has hold of my hand again, and he's looking at the ring on my finger.  Partly, I think, because it is difficult for him to talk about what his grandparents endured.  "The ring my grandfather gave her on their wedding day -- God only knows what happened to that.  This ring -- my grandfather had to save for years after the war to afford this ring.  He had it designed especially for her, and he gave it to her on their anniversary one year.  I sort of remember it.  I couldn't have been more than five, but I can remember the look on her face when he gave it to her.  It was -- it was a fairly amazing moment."

"They must have been fairly amazing people.  Just to have survived."

Josh nods.  This story is one of those few subjects I have noticed Josh has difficulty talking about.  When we first knew each other, during the campaign, this was the moment I realized that we'd become something more than boss and assistant -- the moment when he told me about his family and the Holocaust.  His mother's father died at Treblinka.  Even though his Lyman grandparents survived, they had two children who didn't make it.  Besides that, there were other relatives -- entire generations he'll never know who died in the camps.  There's nothing left of them, he told me, not even photographs.  He said once that, according to the doctor who saw his grandmother after Birkenau was liberated, she probably wouldn't have survived another thirty-six hours there.

I look at those photographs of concentration camp victims, and I'm horrified that anyone could do those things to another human being; I'm amazed that anyone was strong enough to survive that experience.

Josh looks at those same pictures, and what he sees is his family.

Thirty-six hours.  Imagine that.

Thirty-six hours and Joshua Lyman would never have existed.

***

Twenty minutes.

Not a whole lot of time to savor our newly-affianced status.

It really shouldn't surprise me that the first visitor arrives about twenty minutes after I present Donna with her ring.

And since the secrecy thing was my idea, I have no right to be upset when she pulls the ring off and -- with a helpless look at me -- slips it back into the box, which she shoves into her pants pocket.

The sight of her hiding the ring leaves me oddly depressed.

She mouths, "Sorry," and goes to answer the door.

"Good afternoon, Josh."

It's Toby.

I would've put money on CJ or Sam.  Maybe Leo.

But Toby Zeigler?  Skipping work to pay a visit to an injured friend?

I am curious.

"Toby," I say.  "Hey."

Donna hovers in the entryway for a moment, then points to the kitchen.  "I'm going to get some plates ready."

"Oh," Toby says, standing awkwardly in front of the couch.  "Are you having dinner?  I can go--"

"No, Toby."  I gesture towards the armchair.  "Stay."

He settles on the edge of the chair.  "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," I answer.

"Is there much..."  He waves one hand in the direction of his midsection. "...pain?"

I shrug off his question.  "I've got some impressive drugs.  They work, but they also make me a little loopy."

"Josh."  Toby's lips quirk upwards.  "I've seen an aspirin knock you out."

I roll my eyes at him.  "I take it Donna got to you, too."

"About your sensitive system?" he asks.

"Delicate system," Donna corrects from the other room.

Toby and I share a grin.

"So, what's going on at work?" I am desperate for something work-related to do; Donna has been withholding information.

"Nothing important," Toby demurs.

"Toby," I say, "it's the White House."

"Nothing that needs your attention," he says.

"She get to you on that, too?" I ask.

"Not Donna," Toby replies.  "CJ."

"CJ's plotting against me now?"

"Yup."

I'll be lucky if I get back to work before I'm fifty.

"The reason I came by, Josh," Toby shifts uncomfortably, "is to apologize."

I'm lost.  "Apologize?"  I give Toby what must be an utterly confused look.  "For what?"

He stares at his hands.  "We were...  The rest of us, we were all fine.  After.  And we spent a good ten minutes standing around asking each other if we were fine.  And we knew that you were, you know, missing--"

"Toby," I interrupt, "you didn't shoot me."

He glances up at me, shocked.  "I know."

"It's not your fault."

"If I had found you sooner--"

"My fourteen hours of surgery would've started a couple minutes earlier."

"Yes," he says, "but--"

"Seriously, Toby," I say.  I wait until he looks at me.  "This is not your fault."

He stares at me for a long moment, then sighs.  His body relaxes slightly.  "Okay."

We are silent for a moment, slightly awkward with each other.

Donna sweeps into the room.  "Dinner should be here any minute -- Toby, we got Chinese food.  There's plenty."

I have a sudden, amusing image of Donna in a crisp white apron offering us beer.  She would hand me my ass if she knew what I was thinking.

Toby checks with me, then nods.  "Thanks."

"Sure."  Donna smiles at him.

It's amazing what her presence can do to ease the tension.

There's another knock at the door, and Donna gives me a smile.

Sam is standing in the hallway, holding two bags of food.  "Yours, I presume?"

"Sam," I say.  "Come on in."

Donna arches her eyebrow.  "Where's CJ?"

Sam acknowledges the hit with a grin.  "Looking for a parking place."

***

When you're caught between two master politicians trying to out strategize each other, a simple thing like planning your wedding becomes an exercise in skullduggery.  Getting out of town, for instance, requires more planning than the Mideast Summit.

And I worked on that Mideast Summit, so I know.

Even at home, where Josh has locks on the doors, visitors keep showing up at the most inopportune times.  Apparently the Cregg-McGarry Plan is still being enforced.  Josh, in his unique way, is enjoying all this.  It's a fight.  And since he can't go to Capitol Hill and harangue at Republicans these days, he is throwing himself into outwitting our friends.  It worries me, for what I think should be obvious reasons.  I know this man much too well; I know that it's the battle that attracts him.  Suppose everyone said to him, "You and Donna?  Terrific!  Congratulations!"  Would he still be so determined to have me?  Sam once jokingly said that I was Josh's "forbidden love."  I'm wondering lately whether the forbidden part is the real turn on for Josh.

This is not the sort of thing you want to be contemplating three days before your wedding, believe me.

Yes, we have a date.  We have reservations (under my lower-profile name) at a bed-and-breakfast in Maine.  We have done the research on when to get the license and the blood tests.  I have found -- not a silly traditional dress with a veil and a train -- but a very becoming cocktail dress.  In white, since Josh asked so nicely.

I have also spent a small fortune at Victoria's Secret.  I have my priorities.

As for what Josh will wear, I have told him to pick one of his two good suits and just make sure it's not rumpled.  He used to have three good suits, you may recall, but I suggested that he donate the one which was never his regular Tuesday suit to Goodwill.

The trick now becomes getting to Maine unhindered.  We're renting a car to throw Leo off the scent.  Yes, Josh is that paranoid.

I am supposedly going to visit friends in Wisconsin for a week or so while Josh presumably spends time with family in New England.  We will meet up at the airport, rent the car and proceed from there.

Friends have told me that planning your wedding can get complicated.  Somehow, I'm pretty sure none of this is what they meant.

***

Donna is driving.  She insisted, claiming I wasn't fully recovered from my surgery.  And something else about the painkillers.

I was irritated at first -- and, no, I don't have control issues -- but now I realize I've got the advantage.  Donna has to concentrate on driving the car -- especially since we're in that confusing section just north of New York City -- and I'm free to just sit here and stare at her.

She's doing that adorable crinkled-forehead thing as she studies the green road signs whizzing past.

"Josh," Donna warns, "quit staring at me."

"I am not staring at you."  So, I'm a liar.

"Why don't you go back to," she glances over at me, "I don't know, worrying about the blood test."

"Donna, I can't believe you're bringing that up!"

I'm feeling a little light-headed.

"It's a needle, Josh."  She is grinning.  "A big, fat needle, and they're going to plunge it right into your arm--"

"Donna, do you want me to vomit right here?"

She stops talking, a satisfied grin on her face.

"You are a cruel, cruel woman, Donnatella Moss."

"Ah, but that's why you're marrying me, Joshua Lyman."

Fair point.

"Speaking of which," I begin.  "Vows?"

She gives me a strange look.  "I believe vows are involved, yes."

"I mean, do we really want to go for all of that 'love, honor and cherish' crap?"

Donna rolls her eyes.  "Because, really, who wants a spouse to love, honor, or cherish her?"

"You know what I mean," I say.  "That's just so..."

"Sappy?"

"Yes," I say.  "That."

"Did you have a suggestion for an alternative, or are we just going to skip the vows altogether.  Which, I believe, would render the ceremony completely toothless and--"

"Yes," I just talk over her.  Sometimes that's the only way to get a word in.  "Yes, I have an alternative."

"Hang on," she says, and cuts over three lanes to catch the proper highway.

"Donna!" I slowly peel my fingers from the armrest.

"What?"

"This is not a bumper car."

"And did I hit any other cars?"

"Not for lack of trying."

"Joshua."

"Yes?"

"You were saying?"

I pause to collect my thoughts.

"Yes, before my brush with death--"

"Josh."

"--I was about to propose that we write our own vows."

"Write our own vows?"

"Yes."

She gives me a suspicious look.  "Did you have Sam write your vows for you?"

"Donna!"

"Because he can't keep a secret, and if you did ask Sam to write your vows--"

"I didn't ask Sam to write my vows."

She studies me for a long moment, then nods.  "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes," she says.  There is a momentary silence, then she asks, "What are we supposed to say?"

"Donna, what do you think we're supposed to say?"

"Well, I don't know, Josh.  I've never written wedding vows before."

"Just say whatever feels appropriate."

She gnaws on her lip for a moment, then starts to smile.  "I, Donnatella Moss, promise to wear what you, Joshua Lyman, have dubbed The Rose Bikini when you finally take me to Hawaii."

"Donna."

"Oh, come on, Josh."  She is giggling now.  "This is at least a little bit amusing."

I try to stay mad, but her laughter is infectious.  I get into the spirit of things.  "I promise to buy you that DVD player you've been bitching about.  Hell, I'll even throw in a copy of that stupid Cary Grant movie--"

"His Girl Friday?" Donna interrupts.  "Are you referring to His Girl Friday as 'that stupid Cary Grant movie'?"

"Yeah," I shrug.  "I don't like Cary Grant."

"What?"

"I don't like him."

"You don't like Cary Grant?"

"Donna, are you having trouble with the English language again, because--"

"How can you dislike Cary Grant?"

"I don't know, he just -- does it really matter?"

"Yes," Donna says.  "I can't marry someone who doesn't like Cary Grant."

I give her a challenging look.  "Oh, yeah?  Well, I can't possibly marry someone who doesn't understand the sublime humor of Monty Python's Flying Circus."

After a moment, Donna begins to snicker again.  "I promise never to make you sit through anything starring Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts--"

"I promise never to make you watch The Three Stooges Marathon on Nick-at-Nite--"

"I promise you'll never have to discuss an Oprah book with me--"

"And I'll never make you bring me beer during a Red Sox-Yankees game."

Donna grins at me.  "Like I'd bring you beer anyway."

I grin right back at her.

"See?" I say.  "Writing our own vows is easy."

***

So here's what we have in the end: Maine but no ocean cliffs; a justice of the peace rather than a minister or a rabbi; and our very own handwritten wedding vows.  This is what I will say about our wedding vows: Josh and I put a great deal of thought into them, and I sincerely believe they capture the spirit of our relationship.

"I, Donnatella Moss, promise to always program the coffeemaker -- and the VCR clock, too, because I know how you have trouble with that."

"I do not."

"Josh, you taped half of Days of Our Lives instead of Friends, which, I should point out, is on seven hours later."

"That was one time."

"Josh, do you really want to argue about this right now?"

"No."

"Okay.  Your turn."

"I, Joshua Lyman, promise that I will never ask you to bring me coffee -- except, to keep up appearances--"

"To keep up appearances?"

"Yeah, you know, like if Leo's in my office."

"Leo knows I don't get you coffee."

"Donna, can we discuss this later?"

"I guess so."

*

Okay, so you're wondering about the wedding night.  Did it meet expectations?  Was Josh suitably impressed by my purchases at Victoria's Secret?  Did I, in fact, have to do all the work?

The answers to your questions are yes, yes and probably about sixty percent.  As for the other forty percent, let's just say that if he'd asked me, there were at least two points there at which I would even have brought him coffee.

And, not surprisingly, Josh can put that mouth of his to some amazing uses that have nothing to do with talking.

What is surprising is that Josh, as a lover, is extremely considerate.  Extremely.  Who knew that Mr. Walking Ego turns into a sensitive "you first" kind of guy in bed?  If he'd treat his assistant with the courtesy with which he treats his wife, life would be perfect.  Of course, now that I think about it, this could be another manifestation of the Josh who has to win.  I mean, wouldn't it just figure that he'd be determined to be better at this than anyone else you've ever known?

Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

One other thing:  Josh may not have gotten that candlelit ceremony, but by god there were candles.  I think we stopped at every gift shop between DC and Maine and bought most of them out.  I was actually a bit worried that we'd end up burning down the bed and breakfast; but then, you know, Josh started kissing me and I sort of forgot about everything else.  The room didn't burn down, so I'm guessing Josh put them out at some point after I fell asleep.  In his arms.

You know, I always thought Josh had nice arms.  They're even nicer when they're naked and wrapped around you.

So all in all, what I'm saying here is that the evening exceeded expectations.

***

I hear gunfire.

I open my eyes and I'm outside the Newseum.

I hear gunfire and I know I'm about to be shot.

I try to back away from the fence, but I can't seem to move my arms.  I look over and find that my wrists are tied to the bars with strips of red fabric.

I yank my arms.  But I can't get any leverage, splayed against the fence as I am.

The gunfire is getting closer.

I pull harder, my muscles protesting vehemently.

I am screaming, but there is no sound except the deafening gunfire.

There are people walking towards me.  I can hear them marching.

I can't get free.

My heart is thumping in time to their measured steps.

They are behind me, now, and I am terrified.  I can feel their evil eyes on my back.

I twist, trying desperately to face them.  I can't move enough, bound as I am.

"Ready," a voice shouts.

Oh, God.

I contort my body further and catch a glimpse of the men behind me -- a row of soldiers in tan uniforms, red armbands, and shiny black boots.

With rifles pointed at me.

"Aim."

I scream, throwing myself at the fence in sheer panic.

"Fire!"

I spring upright.

I am in bed.

My wide eyes drink in the details of the room in the dim light.

I am in bed with Donna.

My head clears.  I am sweating.

Donna and I are in our room at a small Bed & Breakfast in Ogunquit, Maine.

The shooting was 17 days ago, and I am still healing from 14 hours of surgery.

It is 4:13 in the morning, the day after my wedding.

My breathing begins to even out.

Amazingly, Donna is still asleep.  I concentrate on her for a moment, allowing the last vestiges of panic to slide away.

I want nothing more than to escape into a dreamless sleep, but I am awake now.  Wide awake.  Cold.  Shivering and covered in sweat.

I need a shower.

I glance at Donna.  Her eyes are flickering beneath her lids, and I wish her peaceful dreams.

One of us, at least, should sleep well on our wedding night.

I press a light kiss to her shoulder and slide my leg from beneath hers.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, and I study myself in the mirror.

I look like shit.

Last night, after the wedding and the first round of enthusiastic, amazing sex, I looked happy.  Sated.  Content.

Now...

My eyes stray to my chest, examining the angry red line down the center, and the puckered round entry wound to the left.  I will bear these marks forever.  Like my grandparents' tattooed numbers, a symbol of intolerance and hate.

I shake my head and abandon the mirror.

My shower is very hot and very long, and I step out feeling not very refreshed.

I'm not sure if I can face Donna yet.  I don't want her to know about the nightmares.  Not yet.  I will not ruin our honeymoon with this, I tell myself.  Even if I have to--

"Josh?"

Donna is awake.  I take a deep breath and reach for the doorknob.

Showtime.

***

"Josh?"

I wake up at about five a.m.  More to the point, I wake up alone.  One night of sharing my bed with this man, and I wake up feeling bereft because he's not here.

I'd consider myself pathetic if I weren't still, well, glowing.

Josh emerges from the bathroom.  Naked.  It's going to take me awhile getting used to this-naked Josh, and he's my very own to play with.  Give me another fifty years or so and I'll be blasé about it all.

Maybe.

"I was thinking," Josh says, and I'll note with too much amusement how darn cute he is when he's completely naked and running his hand through that unruly mop of hair of his, "of going downstairs and getting the papers."

I sit up, not remembering that I'm naked too until I get a grin from Josh that has nothing to do with who won the news cycle.  "It's Maine, Josh," I say.  "It's five a.m. in a small town in Maine.  I'm guessing that it could be difficult to find the Times and the Post here at this hour."

"Breakfast then."

"If you'd been paying attention when we checked in--"

"My mind was elsewhere."

"You'd know that breakfast is served from 7:30 to 10:30."

"Well, I have to do something."

"Josh, as much as I understand that back home you'd be getting to the office and screaming at me to bring you coffee -- which would be doubly fruitless since I'd be home in bed and I wouldn't bring you coffee under any circumstances -- this is Maine.  This is a vacation."

"Technically, it's a honeymoon."  He's smiling like he's way too satisfied.

Okay, so am I.

"Yes, it is, Josh.  So don't you think that -- if you must wake me up at 5 a.m. -- we could find a better use for our time than tracking down how successfully CJ managed to spin the press yesterday?"

"Hey, look.  I didn't notice that TV last night.  Wonder if it gets CNN?"

"Joshua!"

"Donnatella?"

Okay, so here's the thing I only recently figured out.  I know; I was a little slow on the uptake on this one.  Josh and I never have been, and never will be, the kind of people who develop cute nicknames for each other.  No "honey," "baby" or "sweetie" for us.  Neither in public nor in private.  And we are also not given to frequent declarations of love.  We have both said it; we each know the other was sincere about it; it's time to move on.  But what we've been doing all along, since the campaign, is using the "Joshua" and "Donnatella" thing as substitutes for all the syrupy language that's just not us.  I know; other people probably picked up on this long ago, but I'm just now starting to realize it.

Oh, and as for whether that TV got CNN -- we spent three days in Maine, and we never did find out.

***

I feel actual pain upon checkout.

Donna and I spent three amazing days at this Bed & Breakfast becoming intimate, emotionally and physically.  Leaving seems... wrong, somehow.

I'm not ready to go back to Washington.  To go back to work and nightmares and keeping my hands off Donna all day.

I sign the credit slip, give the clerk a wan smile, and head out into the northeastern summer afternoon.  It's in the high 70s and beautiful, the view from the B&B overlooks a craggy cliff and the magnificently blue ocean.

Donna has abandoned the car and clambered to the top of a nearby rock outcropping.  I shouldn't follow her, but common sense has never been my strong suit.

She hears me when I'm halfway up and turns to admonish me.

"Josh, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Climbing a cliff."

I'm breathing hard, but I'm almost there.  "I wouldn't classify this as a cliff, Donna."

"Why not?"

"It's not that big."

I reach her side.

She takes my hand.  I can feel the cool metal of her ring against my palm.

She looks up at me.  "It's a rock formation with a sheer face on two sides.  I don't think size really matters in this case."

I take a cautious step towards the edge.  She's right.  It's a cliff.  I scramble backwards.

I am not a fan of heights.

The view is gorgeous, though.

"Josh?"

"Yeah?" I ask.

"I don't want to go."

She is looking up at me with those eyes.

"Me, neither."  I hold her gaze.

She sighs after a moment and says, "But."

"Right."  I nod, my expression reflecting her disappointment.  "But."

"Okay," she says, releasing my hand.  "I'll bring the car around."

She leaves my side, and I reach out for her.  I grab her hand and tug her towards me.

We kiss.  And kiss.  And kiss some more.

Donna pulls away, finally, and her eyes are wet when she looks up at me.  "I'll get the car."

***

Josh is arguing with the radio.  NPR: All Things Considered.  He's catching up on the news cycle, and he's talking back to the commentators he disagrees with.

"I'm guessing that the honeymoon is over," I say.

"What?"

"News.  Washington.  Real life.  The thrill is gone."

"I wouldn't say that," Josh replies.

"What exactly would you say?"

"Pull off at the next exit, and let's find a hotel.  We can be one day late getting back."

He's devious.  He's infuriating.  He's egotistical.  He's mine.

God, but I am loving marriage!

*

"Hey, there's a picture of me in this one!"

I'm looking through the new People magazine.  Yes, Josh got the cover of this one too.  I'm reading the funnier quotes -- the ones that make him sound heroic -- and adding my own extremely witty comments.  Josh keeps reminding me about the supportive wife thing.

That's not going to happen, so he might just as well reconcile himself to it.

"Let's see."  Being Josh, he rather abruptly takes the magazine out of my hands.

"I don't like this," he says after a minute.

"Granted, that's not my best side, but still I think there's also a supportive husband thing you're ignoring here."

"It's implying stuff."

"No, it's not."

"It says right here.  It says how you didn't leave my side the whole time I was in the hospital."

"Technically untrue.  And yet the gist of the thing--"

"Donna, this is not funny.  If you read between the lines, it's definitely implying that we're -- we're--"

"Sitting in a hotel room somewhere, getting ready to do it?"

"Not funny."

"Yet true.  What are you worried about anyway, Josh?  We've got it covered.  The moral high ground, remember?"

"Yes, but if we reveal our strategy too soon, everything's ruined.  We won't have time to prove that we can still work together efficiently.  They'll split us up."

"And then we'll be stuck with nothing but the marriage and the great sex.  Oh, the horror!"

Josh gets that egotistical grin on his face again.  "The great sex?" he repeats.

"The not unpleasant sex," I clarify.  Too late.  The ego has landed.

However, as this leads to more of the great sex, I'm not complaining.

*

For those of you contemplating being secretly married, I have only one word of advice -- yes!  Really.  This is a fabulous experience.  First of all, and I know this is what you're wondering about, the sex is great.  Seriously. I mean, you're married, so it's all guilt free and legally sanctioned.  Second, nobody knows about it, which gives the entire experience that whole clandestine, sneaking around, I've-got-the-most-incredible-secret flavor.

I am smiling.  I am constantly smiling.  I can't get this dopey grin off my face.  Even at work.  As far as I can tell, my friends and co-workers are willing to attribute this to my relief over Josh's recovery.

Josh claims to be worried about my unfortunate tendency to look, in his delicate choice of words, like "a woman who's been well and truly laid."  As you can tell, marriage has not hurt his ego in the least.

I'd give him an argument on that one but, dammit, he's right.  That's what I look like.  That's what I am.

I have, of course, as delicately as possible, pointed out that his expression pretty much matches mine.

Perhaps disaster looms around the corner, but for now life is amazingly good.  Leo doesn't seem to suspect.  I'm avoiding CJ.

And, because I know you're wondering, I'll tell you:  No, we are not doing it in the West Wing.  That would be highly unprofessional.  And besides, maintenance refuses to put that lock on Josh's office door.  Something about historic preservation.

It's summer now, Josh is pretty fully recovered, and life has returned to normal in the Bartlet administration.  Slow normal.  Congress is not in session, so there are a few less crises than usual at the moment.

Josh's doctors insist-and like a good assistant/secret wife, I agree-that my husband/boss must take it easy.  Easy for Josh means ten instead of sixteen hour days.  Still, I have discovered a great way to get him out of the office. I make myself stop smiling.  Once Josh notices that the glow is fading, his ego (which, let's all face it, is even stronger than his libido) kicks in and he insists that we head home and, in his words, "start acting married."

This may be the one thing on which Josh Lyman and I have never disagreed.

I love acting married.

One day I may convince myself that it's not even an act.

***

I am blissful.

I, Josh Lyman, am experiencing bliss.  On a daily basis.

Actually, I am experiencing bliss several times a day, to be precise.

Seriously.

Yup, I've got that cocky grin on my face again.  Can't seem to shake it, and I really wonder to what my corkers attribute my sudden, satisfied aura.

Sam would die to hear me say this, but I highly recommend marriage to a feisty, witty, intelligent, sexy, beautiful, sweet, adorable person.

I could definitely be happy with our current situation for, you know, the rest of my life.

Wow.

Donnatella Moss in my life and in my bed for years and years to come.

I adore the very concept.

A concept which, consequently, affords me many, many opportunities to make up for my rather limited participation in our initial expressions of connubial affection.

It's not like I feel inadequate or anything.

Really, I'm fine with the fact that my energetic participation was curbed at first by, you know, my injuries.  And as I've told Donna, I am not an egotistical man.

It's just that whenever I see Donna without that post-coital glow, I feel personally obligated to see to it that her smile returns.  And, of course, I pretty much want her whenever she's in the same building as me.

Which can be a problem, since we work at the White House.  It's not exactly appropriate to, say, drag her out of a meeting with Leo to the nearest broom closet.

Not -- I should point out -- that we have sex in the White House.  We are married, not devoid of sense.

Plus, I can't seem to convince the office manager to requisition a lock for my office door.

Besides that, married life is... well, blissful.

It occurs to me, however, that bliss is not a natural state of being.  What I mean to say is that people experience bliss for finite amounts of time; they don't get to keep it.

It's a transient state of being.

And I have a knot in my gut telling me my time is almost up.

THE END

10.18.00