I, Donna Moss, am in Los Angeles on a February afternoon.  I am sitting by the pool in my new bikini (a very stylish rose print with a matching wrap).  The temperature has risen ten degrees in the nine hours since Air Force One landed, so I have on the SPF 30 Clinique City Block Oil Free Daily Face Protector.

Nine hours ago, I was in DC.  It was cold and rainy, and I'd reached that point where I believed summer would never come.  And now here I am in sunny L.A.  The next two hours are mine.  I left my cell phone and my pager in the hotel room.  If Josh wants me, he'll have to come here and get me.

I am the envy of the entire White House support staff.  None of the other assistants came to California this time.  Bonnie, Ginger and Kathy are fighting rush hour traffic on DuPont Circle right now, unless they're staying late because of the ethanol tax credit vote.  Margaret was supposed to come along, but Leo cancelled at the last minute.  Josh, on the other hand, couldn't imagine coming here without me.

I'm relatively young, reasonably good looking, extremely intelligent, and I have alabaster skin.  I am in Los Angeles, and the sun on my face feels incredible.

And I can't stop thinking about my boss and Joey Lucas.

It's not that I dislike Joey Lucas.  I barely know her; I honestly have no opinion.  She seems nice enough.  All I really know about her is that she's deaf, she's from California, and she's O'Dwyer's campaign manager.  You have to give her credit; I've been around politicians now long enough to know that this is not an easy profession for women to succeed in.  Add to that the fact that she's deaf, and you realize that Joey Lucas must have something going for her.

Which doesn't mean she's a nice person, however.  For all I know, she could be another Mandy Hampton.

I don't want to go through that again -- jealous Josh, heartbroken Josh, rebound guy Josh.  With what I get paid, they can't expect me to put up with that.

Because here's the thing:  Josh has a crush on Joey Lucas.  He's obsessed with her, and I honestly don't understand it.  All they did was argue.  On what was supposed to be my free Saturday too.  Talk, talk, talk -- you wouldn't think someone who's deaf could carry on a lengthy conversation like that.

I called Josh on it later too.  I told him that arguing with a visitor that way was inappropriate.  "It was stimulating," Josh said.  "I like a woman who can banter."

"Since when?" I asked.

"Well, a woman who's not supposed to be working for me.  'Cause then, you know, it just gets annoying."

"Yeah, it must suck always losing a battle of wits to someone who makes half your salary."

"I wouldn't know," Josh said.

I gave him my superior laugh, so we could both claim victory and move on.  He didn't mention Joey Lucas again, but I knew that didn't mean he'd stopped thinking about her.

I should get out of this sun.  I have sensitive alabaster skin, and even the SPF 30 may not be protection enough.  Still, tomorrow I'll be back in DC, so I should enjoy this weather while I can.  "Gather ye rosebuds" and all that.

God, did I really say that?  To Josh?

I'm going to think about work, not about Josh and Joey Lucas.  Let's see:  I returned all of Josh's phone calls (except the one from Joey Lucas); I called Margaret to make sure there was no change on the ethanol tax credit vote; I met with the local DNC rep, who was pissed that he was meeting with the deputy chief of staff's secretary.  I explained that an assistant is not a secretary (not that Josh always understands the distinction himself, but still).

I ran into Joey Lucas in the hotel lobby.

She had the home court advantage; she looked like she'd gotten a decent night's sleep.  I, on the other hand, had those circles under my eyes that I get when I have to catch an early morning flight.  Even if it is on Air Force One.  I would have done the whole "nod politely and keep moving" thing if her interpreter hadn't stopped me.

"Ms. Moss," he yelled.  He does this thing with his voice where it's somehow clear that he's speaking for a woman -- for Joey Lucas -- and what her tone would be if she said it herself.  I admit to being curious:  Does he make all that up, or does sign language indicate mood as well as sound?

And will Joey Lucas be around long enough that I should find this out?

"Where's Joshua?" Kenny asked.

Now that just pissed me off.  She doesn't know him well enough to call him Joshua.  It was very presumptuous of her.

"With the president," I explained.  And I discovered something that's disconcerting about talking to Joey Lucas.  She splits her attention.  It's like half her focus is on reading your lips while the other half is watching Kenny sign.  I know rationally that this is not her fault, but it still got on my nerves.

"When will he be back?" Joey asked.  She actually said this, and I wondered how she managed to learn the sounds.  Maybe she hasn't always been deaf; maybe there's some way to learn sounds without hearing them.  I'd like to know, but for some reason it struck me as too personal a question to ask.

"Hard to say," I answered.  "There's a town hall meeting about flag burning, there's lunch and a meeting with Al Kiefer, there's--"

She blushed.  Joey Lucas blushed when I mentioned Al Kiefer.  Now what does that mean?

"Anyway," I continue, "I don't expect him back until time to get ready for the fundraiser.  But I'll be happy to give him a message."

"Just tell him I said hello and I'm looking forward to seeing him again," she said.  Or she signed it, and Kenny provided the words.

Maybe I don't like Joey Lucas after all.  What she just did, it reminded me of Mandy Hampton.  I've never liked Mandy; she seems to think I'm beneath her notice.  The most she's ever said to me is "Is he in?"  Never once has Mandy asked me how I was or treated me like anything other than a piece of office furniture.  If Joey Lucas has that attitude, I'm going to decide to hate her.

I started to walk away.  "Donna," Kenny yelled out in his Joey Lucas voice again.

"Yes?" I asked.

"I just wanted to say how good it is to see you again," Joey/Kenny signed and said.  "I hope we get a chance to talk again at the fundraiser."

Oh hell.  I guess I don't get to hate her that easily after all.

* * *

I've been lucky.  I've never had to endure Josh falling in love.  When I started working for him, his relationship with Mandy was already disintegrating.  Since then, he's never gone out with the same woman more than twice.  Girlfriends, I've been told, can make life hell for an assistant.  They make demands, they become irrationally jealous of you (as if!), they blame you when he reaches the point where he's not returning their calls.  Kathy has stories.  Josh and I have a smooth, efficient working relationship.  I would hate to see anything get in the way of that.  But, whether it's Joey Lucas or some other gullible female, I suppose it's inevitable.  Josh is intelligent (when his ego doesn't get in the way), good-looking (if you don't mind that swaggering, cocky attitude) and surprisingly soft-hearted (at least once or twice a year).  Sooner or later, some woman is going to decide she can overlook the hostility, the bravado and the thoughtlessness.  And then where will I be?

The sun is so bright it's starting to make my eyes water.  I should have brought sunglasses.

Suddenly, a small black object comes hurtling toward my head.  I catch it in both hands just before it has a chance to cause a concussion.

"You forgot your pager," Josh says.

* * *

There are moments -- there are, believe me, lots of moments -- when I would like to murder Josh Lyman.  This is one of them.

"Josh," I ask, "why would I want my pager?  In the eighteen months that I have had this thing, you are the only person who has ever paged me."

"All the more reason you shouldn't be without it."  He's smirking.  He's doing that annoying smirking thing he knows I hate.

"But you're here, Josh," I state reasonably.  "You don't need to page me if we're both sitting right here."

Now here's something I've noticed about Josh:  he and sunlight don't mix.  His natural element is the smoke-filled room, like the good little politico he is.  Once, during the campaign, the Bartlets invite the staff to a barbeque.  Even Toby spent more time outdoors than Josh did.

"Geez," he says, "it's hot out here."  This is the Lyman version of a subtle hint.  I'm supposed to agree and follow him back inside to whatever work awaits.

"This is my personal time," I tell him.

"What?"

"Between two and four is personal time.  It's on the schedule."  He's standing directly over me, and my neck is starting to feel the strain of staring up at him.  "I am using my personal time to work on my tan."

"You have no tan to work on."

"Quit blocking the sun, and I will have."

He sits down, still wearing his jacket, on the chair next to mine.  "As your boss, I feel the need to ask whether you think your outfit is appropriate."

"Appropriate?  It's a bikini; I'm working on my tan.  Yes, that seems appropriate."

"What I mean," Josh says, "is that, as part of the presidential party, you have to be image conscious."

"And you have to be kidding."

"No, I'm serious," he says.  "I'm not sure you should be wearing that in public."

"I happen to look good in this."

"I didn't say you don't look good.  In fact, you look--"  He pauses to choose his words.  "You look not bad."

Wrong choice.

"Josh, again I point out the concept of personal time.  It's not like I'm wearing a button that says 'I work for Bartlet.'"

"Where would you stick it?" he mutters.

"I can tell you where to stick--"

"Bickering again, children?"  CJ, dressed in a much more revealing swimsuit than mine, stops by us.

"Josh says I'm dressed inappropriately."

CJ laughs.  "He's wearing a suit by the pool.  I'd say he's the one who needs to change."

"I am making a point about the need to present ourselves as professionals," Josh replies.

"Josh, get a life," CJ says and walks past us.

Josh stands up and yells after her, "Yeah, that's a real witty comeback there, Claudia Jean."

He flops back down again.  I close my eyes and try to ignore him.  If I tell him Joey Lucas was looking for him, maybe he'll go away and leave me alone.

I don't say anything.

"It's too damn hot out here," Josh finally says.  "Come on, Donna, let's go inside."

"No, it's my--"

"Your personal time.  So I've heard.  You know you're going to get sunburned, don't you?  You'll probably try to take a sick day because of it."

"You're right."

"I am?"

"Yes," I say. "I should turn over and do my back now."

I turn over, and I hear Josh mumble something incoherent.  "What did you say?" I ask him.

"You need to put some lotion or something on your back so you don't burn."

"I can't reach," I answer.

"It's right there on the table," he says.

"No, I mean I can't reach my back."  I wait for a minute, hoping Josh will make the logical offer.  He doesn't.  I sigh and start to sit up.  "I'll get CJ to help me," I say.

"No," Josh answers . "No, I'll do that for you.  Yeah.  Yeah, I can do that."

So, big deal.  Josh touches me all the time.  Every day. Josh is a very tactile person.  This is nothing to make a -- well, nothing to make a thing over.  It's just Josh, after all.

I look up again and notice that Josh has apparently decided to turn this into a production.  He's finally taken off his jacket, and it's comical to see how precisely he folds the crumpled, smelly thing over his chair.

"Did you bring another suit?" I ask.  "Besides what you're wearing to the fundraiser, I mean."

"Why?"  He sounds as though he thinks I'm crazy.

"Because I know you.  You'll head back to the White House instead of going home tonight.  If you didn't bring anything else, I'll need to call housekeeping and have them clean that suit while we're at the fundraiser."

He rolls up his shirt sleeves.  I wish I could find a man -- an uncomplicated, non-work-related man -- who has arms like Josh.  For someone who spends most of his time in meetings, he's surprisingly muscular.

He pours some City Block in his hand and sits down on the edge of my lounge chair.  I don't know why I close my eyes, but I do.

Josh is pushing my hair off my neck and rubbing the lotion in tiny little circles on my shoulders.  This feels surprisingly good and warm and almost shockingly intimate.  I can feel Josh's breath on my neck, and I really have lost the ability to speak.

I should speak.  I should say something.  I should stop myself from feeling this.  I should say, "I saw Joey Lucas, and she's looking for you."

I don't say a word.

"Donnatella," Josh says -- only he doesn't say it as much as he whispers it.  I wait for the question or the order or whatever's coming next: "Donnatella, take a message."  "Donnatella, where's the briefing memo?"  "Donnatella, get me Joey Lucas on the phone."  But he doesn't say anything else.  Just "Donnatella."  In a whisper.  I wish he's say it again.

Something Sam said at Christmas comes back to me.  "I get paid to read for subtext."  Well, I wish Sam were here to explain this to me cause I'm thinking there's subtext but I can't figure out what it means.

No, I don't.  I don't wish Sam were here.  In fact, I wish CJ weren't on the other side of the pool.  I wish Toby and the president weren't in this hotel.  I wish Zoey and Charlie were in DC, because I want to do things that would set a very bad example.

I wish I'd never heard of Joey Lucas.

"You were right," Josh says.

"Huh?"  This is a day for the record books; Josh never admits I'm right.  "What was I right about?"

"You do have alabaster skin," he says.  "I never noticed."

He suddenly stands up and grabs his jacket.  "Well, this is all of the great outdoors I can take.  I'm going back to the room to work."  He glances at his watch.  "You have forty-five minutes of personal time left."

"Slave driver," I say.  I am amazed at how normal I sound.

"Layabout."  He grins and starts to head back inside.

I am not going to be this person.  I am not going to be this pathetic little person who develops a thing for her boss -- her demanding, inconsiderate, selfish boss -- just when he falls for someone else.  I sit up and yell, "Joshua!"

He turns around.  "What?"

"I forgot to tell you.  I saw Joey Lucas."

"Joey Lucas?  She's here?"

Damn him.  Damn him.  Damn him.

"Yeah.  She said she'll be at the party, and she can't wait to see you."

He pauses.  Then he says, "Good.  Well, that's-good."

"Gather ye rosebuds, Josh," I say.

He turns his back to me and throws what looks like a wave or a dismissive gesture and walks away.

I've made up my mind.  I've decided I hate Joey Lucas.

* * * 

I brought my favorite bubble bath -- a lavender and chamomile blend, highly recommended for those of us with sensitive skin.  I thoroughly intend to soak in this tub for an hour.  If Deputy Chief of Staff Simon Lagree doesn't approve, well, I'm damned good at what I do; I can always find another job.  Hell, I call move.  Who says I have to live in DC?

I let my body sink a little farther into the tub, close my eyes, and consider my options.  I could move back to Chicago and be close to my family.

Maybe not.

New York.  I like New York.  One night during the campaign, Josh dragged me to this great Chinese place he'd found near the World Trade Center--

Maybe not New York.

Why not here?  L.A.  What's not to like about L.A?  Great weather -- no more mid-January winds off the Potomac.  And there's great shopping.  I checked all the tourist guides, even though I knew I wouldn't have enough free time.  Where else besides L.A. would you find something like the La Brea tar pits?  They've found skeletons of wooly mammoths and saber tooth tigers there.  And it's right in the middle of downtown L.A.

Okay, I'm not saying that's something I'd want to look at every day, but it's definitely a change of scene from DC.

Yeah, I could stand to live in L.A.  I bet an executive assistant to a studio head gets paid tons more money than I make for doing a lot less work.  And wouldn't it just serve him right?

I play around with this fantasy in my head, and I must say I like it.  A studio executive -- a tall, dark, handsome, single studio executive -- will be at the fundraiser.  We'll get to talking.  In front of Josh.  The studio executive will immediately be overcome by my wit, grace and poise.  He'll realize that he can't run his movie studio without me.

"I'm sorry," I'll say nobly.  "But I can't.  For I am a dedicated public servant and an appropriately attired member of the Bartlet administration."

"Besides," Josh will say, "she's a lousy typist and you don't even want to know about her handwriting."

And then I will turn to Josh and utter the words that will destroy his life:  "Screw you, Lyman.  I quit."

The studio executive is whisking me away on his private jet, and Josh is screaming, "Donnatella!" in agonized tones when something truly bizarre happens.

The phone in the bedroom rings.

My pager beeps.

My cell phone chirps.

Simultaneously.

Dear God, that's three appliances.  I mean, how many hands does the man have?

I wrap the towel around my body and head for the bedroom to pick up the phone.

"Go away, Josh," I say.

"Your personal time was over thirty minutes ago."

"I'm getting ready for the fundraiser.  Go away."

"But don't you want dinner?"

"I was going to order room service."

"Great.  I'll have the prime rib.  Well done.  And get me a baked potato.  Maybe some cheesecake."

"Josh!  Doesn't the president need you?"

"He's having dinner with Zoey."

"What are CJ, Toby and Sam doing?"

"Didn't ask them."

"Don't you think you should?"

"I don't know, Donna.  Your room's awfully small.  I don't think we can all eat in there unless we get pizza and sit on the floor.  And I'm not much in the mood for pizza."

"You could call your friend Joey Lucas."

Why do I keep telling him that?

I know why.  I suddenly get it.

Because I want to see just how far I can push this until he says the right thing.  Until he says he'd rather be with me than with her.

"She left me another message.  Well, Kenny did.  She won't be back to the hotel until after the fundraiser."

Damn him again.

So I rate after Joey (and by extension, Kenny) and the president, but before CJ, Toby and Sam.  It's useful to know where I stand.

"All right," I say.  "But I just got out of the tub.  I am standing here soaking wet.  Give me an hour to get dressed and dry my hair."

"Half an hour.  We have work to do."

Of course we do.  Don't we always?

* * *

Dinner passes in, for us, relative calm . A meat-eating Josh is a happy Josh.  I take a bite of my chicken Caesar salad.

"Is there anything in particular you want me to say in your eulogy, Josh?" I ask.

He looks at me, then down at his plate, and back up to me once more.  "Why?  Did you poison the prime rib when I wasn't looking?"

"Yes, and I'm withholding the antidote until I get a raise."

"You know, I'm fairly certain that poisoning a high ranking member of the president's staff is a federal crime."

"No, it's not.  I checked."

"You checked?"

"It seemed like a useful piece of information."

There wasn't enough room for all Josh's food on the tiny table in my room.  And, anyway, the table is littered with all the work Josh brought along.  So he is currently sitting cross-legged on my bed, leaning his back against the headboard.  My salad and I have been relegated to one corner at the end of the bed.  I'm trying to keep a respectable distance between us, but it isn't easy.

"I suppose," he says, "that I'm about to get the red meat lecture again."

"No, for I have seen the error of my ways.  Since the last twenty-five lectures didn't get you to cut back on red meat, I've decided to accept the fact that you're going to continue clogging your arteries until your heart can no longer stand the strain.  I'll have a difficult time delivering your eulogy, however."

"Because you'll be overcome with sorrow, realizing that you could have been a better assistant.  You could have eliminated some of the pressure from my extremely important and demanding job, thus preventing the additional strain on my poor heart."

"Because I'll find the letter you've written with your last ounce of strength, declaring the passion a misguided sense of duty prevented you from revealing in life.  And naming me the beneficiary of a very generous life insurance policy."

"I hate to disappoint you, Donna, but my mother's my beneficiary."

"A girl can dream, Josh."

A girl can also help herself to half his cheesecake.

"Hey!" he protests.  "That's mine."

"But it looks really good.  And I'm still hungry."

"Yes, but I know you.  You'll eat my entire dessert while I'm still on the main course."  He gestures toward the phone.  "Have them send you up another one."

"It'll take an hour, and I only want half.  God, Josh, you're so damn selfish sometimes."

He gives this elaborate sigh, because I am forcing him to give up the three bites of prime rib he has left, and starts putting the plates on the floor.  Finally there's just the cheesecake, two forks and us.  Josh pats the spot on the bed next to him, and I should tell him I changed my mind.  I'm not hungry.  I should tell him he has to leave so I can get dressed for the fundraiser.

I sit down beside him on the bed, and we eat cheesecake.  We don't talk.  This is new.  Being quiet with Josh.  It's not what we do.  I didn't think I could do quiet with Josh.  I like it.  I like sitting on a bed, quietly, with Josh Lyman.

"You've got strawberry sauce," he says, pointing at the corner of my mouth.  He wipes it off, very slowly, and I don't think I'm breathing.  I'm thinking that, right this minute, if he asked, I'd say to hell with office decorum and I don't care if CJ and Toby and Leo and Sam and President Bartlet would all disapprove.  I don't care about scandals and public relations disasters.  I just know that there's a moment in every relationship when you stop talking and you decide -- you finally decide -- that either you're going to be lovers or you're going to be friends.  And I just decided.

And then Josh looks away.  He looks away, and I know he just decided too.  But we didn't make the same decision.

"So how long's it going to take you to get ready for this thing?" he asks.

I am not going to cry.  I am not going to let him know I want to cry.

"About an hour," I say.  I'm proud that my voice doesn't sound shaky.  "Ninety minutes maybe.  I should pack first."

"Okay."  He gets off the bed and heads for the door.  He has his hand on the doorknob when he turns around.

"What do you think I should say?" he asks.

"What?"

"To Joey.  At the fundraiser.  I need a good opening line."

"I find that 'hello' frequently works."

"'Hello'?" he repeats.  "That works?"

"It's a start."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Make something up.  You're a politician.  Now go.  I need to get dressed."

He nods again and leaves.

And I'm not going to cry. 

* * *

This is a great party.  I particularly like the champagne.

I met David Hasselhoff; can you believe it?  David Hasselhoff talked to me.  So did Matthew Perry.  I don't want to sound like a star-struck teenager here.  I mean, I work in the White House.  I see famous people every day.  But still.  Movie stars.  Or at least TV.  I'm liking this.

And the champagne is fantastic.

Do you know what the best part of this incredible party is?  The very best part of all?

I'm avoiding Joey Lucas.

I haven't had to spend one minute talking to her or to Kenny.  I haven't had to give her messages from Josh.  I haven't had to give Josh messages from her.

Oh, she's here.  I've seen her in the crowd.  In fact, she's talking to Josh right now.  He finally got out of that crumpled old suit, and I must admit the boy cleans up good.

Great, great champagne!

Now you might think I'm drunk because it is a fact that I have had entirely too much champagne and I will have a headache in the morning.  But here's the thing:  I do not get drunk.  Honestly. I can drink as much as I want and the worst that will happen is that I'll get a headache.

Me.  Donna Moss.  Personal assistant to the only politician in America who passes out after one beer.

You gotta love irony.

CJ and Sam come over to where I'm sitting.  "Donna?" Sam asks.  "You okay?"

"I'm great.  This is a terrific party."

"'Cause I've got to say that you don't look real perky there," Sam says.  "You are definitely without your usual perk."

"I have a headache."  I'm looking a little to my left, which coincidentally is where Josh is talking to -- well, we all know who he's talking to.  CJ and Sam look in that direction too.

"Oh," CJ finally says.  She draws that syllable out like it's an entire sentence, and I know she gets it.  I know she's completely figured out what happened in my hotel room and why I'm sitting here getting so not drunk alone.

Sam, who is the closest thing Josh has to a best friend, looks conflicted.  Then he sits down next to me and takes my hand.  "Hey," he says, "look on the plus side.  This is Josh we're talking about.  Sooner or later, he's going to do something to screw it up."

That's just sad.  That's just the saddest thing I've heard all day.  I start crying.  CJ hands me a Kleenex from her purse.

"But I don't want him to be unhappy," I sob.  "I couldn't stand it if Josh was unhappy."

You know, I don't think I like this party any more.

It may also be possible that, for the first time in my life, I am actually drunk.

Won't Josh be proud? 

* * *

I take a cab back to the hotel.  CJ said she'll tell Josh I got a headache from drinking too much champagne, which is the truth.  I get back to my room and cry for ten minutes.  Then I wash my face, pack my cocktail party dress and put on my regular clothes.

I look at myself in the mirror and get back some of my usual perk.  To look at me, you wouldn't know I was tipsy, much less that my insensitive jerk of a boss just broke my heart without even trying.

Someone is knocking at my door.

It's the insensitive jerk.

"Are you okay?" he asks.  "'Cause CJ said--"

"I had a headache.  I'm better now."

He comes in. Notice that he doesn't bother asking permission.

"Donnatella, did you get drunk?"

"Why do you do that?" I ask.

"Do what?"

"Call me that.  I hate when you call me that."

"Donnatella?"  Okay, now I'm just confused.  Is he calling me Donnatella, or is he asking me why I don't want him to call me Donnatella ever again?

"You only do it when you're making fun of me.  Or when you're angry.  Or giving orders."

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do.  And I've decided I don't like it.  I think it shows a lack of decorum on your part, Joshua.  I think it blurs the lines."

"What lines?"

"The lines.  The lines between employer and employee."

"I didn't know we had lines."

"Well, we should have.  You're my boss, Josh.  You're not my friend; you're not my brother; you're not -- you're my boss."

"I'm not your friend?"  He sounds bewildered and hurt.  I've made him unhappy.

Oh hell.  I've made Josh unhappy.

"I don't mean -- I just mean -- Just don't call me that if you don't mean it, all right?"

He grins.  He's just a big grinning goofball.  "You do realize that made no sense whatsoever, don't you?"  He pauses for a second, like he's judging whether he can get away with it.  "Donnatella," he says.

* * *

Sam would be pleased to know that I have gotten back my usual level of perk.  I'm in Josh's room waiting for him to finish collecting every soap and shampoo and lotion he can find.

I'm convincing him that he should say goodbye to Joey Lucas.  "'Cause you're whisking back to Washington and you had to see her one more time before you left cause God knows what fate awaits you once you get there."

I'm rather proud of that speech.  Proud of the fact that I have him completely fooled.  Perky -- that's going to be my new strategy.  Thank you, Sam.

The minute Josh leaves, of course, I kick myself for saying it.  Because I'm tempting fate and I know it.  That sort of thing never turns out well.

He's back in ten minutes.  Which means that either something went wrong or I've been seriously overestimating Josh's potential as a lover.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says.  He goes back to packing his things.

"Did you see her?"

"Yes.  I also saw the man she was sleeping with."

"Oops."

"Oops?  You encourage me to go make a total fool of myself and all you can say is 'oops'?"

"That tramp.  That slut.  That hussy," I say.  I want to giggle.

"You have a deeply disturbed sense of humor," he replies.

"Maybe you were misreading the signals."

"No.  No, I'm sure I wasn't."

"Then I repeat -- tramp, slut, hussy."

"You're mocking my pain, aren't you?"

"Maybe just a little," I say.  Because that's what I do.  It's not in the job description, but there it is.  I mock Josh's pain when necessary, so he won't get depressed.  And hostile.  And belligerent.  Just my little contribution to the efficient running of the Bartlet administration.

"I love you, Donna," he says.  Of course, he means it in that Platonic sort of way.  "But don't make fun of this, okay?  I'm not ready for fun to be made of this."

"Okay," I say.  He takes my hand in his for a second, and we walk out the door. 

* * *

I can't sleep.  It is three a.m. EST.  I am on Air Force One, the most comfortable vehicle you will ever encounter, and I can't sleep.

I have an entire row of seats to myself.  Everyone else around me is sleeping.  Almost everyone.

Josh sits in the opposite aisle, and he just starts staring out the window.  It isn't often that he becomes this interested in a woman, and I feel deeply divided.  I have discovered in myself this irrational desire for Joshua Lyman's happiness, but I have also discovered a deep desire to be the cause of that happiness.

And that's not going to happen.

So, fine.  Let him have Joey Lucas if that's what makes him happy.  Let him.

Just let me find a way to survive it.

After a while, he notices that I'm awake too, and he sits down next to me.

"Still got a headache?" he asks.

"Actually, I think I may be a little sunburned."

He smiles.  "Alabaster skin," he says.  "Who knew?"

"I hate when you're sarcastic."

"I wasn't -- Okay, sorry."

I wish I were asleep.  If I were asleep, I could rest my head on Josh's shoulder and no one would notice.  I could pretend for a little while that we weren't in a relationship that desperately needs lines.  I could pretend I love him.

Josh puts his arm very loosely around my sunburned shoulders.  "Go to sleep, Donnatella," he says.

We do need those lines.

I close my eyes and let my head fall against Josh's chest.  I can hear his heart beating, loud and clear.  Unbroken.  Strong.

If I weren't so tired and so worried about blurring the lines, I would tell him that.  I would say, "You have a strong heart, Joshua Lyman.  You have the strongest heart of any man I know."

But I don't say anything, and neither does he, because we're pretending to be asleep.  We're pretending, Josh and I, and there isn't anything we can say.

THE END

09.26.00