I remember that night so clearly.

Well, parts of it, anyway.  Even years later, the important moments are burned into my memory.  I remember the President taking me to task in the Oval Office; I doubt I'll ever forget that.  Looking back, I know that he was blowing off steam.  Given what happened over the next week, I have my suspicions about what had him so angry.  But that night, all I knew was that he had some valid points:  I had screwed up.  I messed up tobacco and the welfare reform bill, and I should've known better than to tip off Amy.

Amy.

Another encounter that is burned into my brain.  The look on her face, the lack of sincerity in her voice when she told me we should be able to talk about things.  Mostly, though, I remember thinking that this dust up over the welfare reform act had confirmed the worst of my suspicions.

This is what's maddening: being wrong.  I loathe being wrong with every last atom in me, and knowing that my interpretation of this thing between Amy and me -- my expectation that our relationship could turn into something more than the attraction between two political creatures who crave intelligence, debate, and political advantage -- was a delusion.  But I knew I was wrong that night.  I knew that our relationship would always be rocky, and it would always come second to our jobs.

Second for both of us; I don't kid myself that I would've gladly put Amy above all things.  But after the strength of the bond between Donna and me, the realization that I would likely never feel that again was a body blow.

That's why I turned Amy down.  That's why I trudged back to the White House, ostensibly to work.  That's how I ended up alone in my office, lights off, silent, mulling over the mess I'd made of my life.

That's where Donna found me.

***

The knock throws me.

Well, not so much the knock as the fact that whoever knocked is actually waiting for permission to enter.  How unusual for this place.  On top of which, it's late, and I didn't see anyone in the bullpen on my way through.  Donna left around seven, and even if she were here, she wouldn't knock.

In fact, if it were six months ago, she'd no doubt barge through the door, tell me she'd had enough of my brooding, and then deliver a ten to fifteen minute soliloquy on, I don't know, the errors on the Jefferson Memorial, the political climate in which the monument was built, and how it portrays him as an abolitionist when he really wasn't.  The amount of information she carries around in her head never ceases to amaze me.

"Yeah," I call out belatedly.

"Josh?"  The door opens and it's Donna, inexplicably.  She left hours ago, and the only reason she'd be back is if somebody called her about the President, the vote, or both.  Great.  I really don't want a babysitter, especially not in the form of my ex-fiancée.  Hasn't my night been torturous enough already?

"I thought you went home," I say, my voice rusty and a little accusatory.  I run a hand through my hair, rub the edge of my eye, and try to focus on her, instead of the self-flagellation.

Donna gives me a tentative smile.  "Margaret called.  She said you might need some help on welfare."

I dip my chin once.  "That all she said?"

To her credit, Donna doesn't falter, doesn't flinch.  "No," she admits, crossing her arms.  I can tell just from the way she's standing that she's not planning on leaving any time soon.

I sigh and lean back in my chair, propping my feet on the desk.  No worries here, I'm projecting, just Josh pulling a late night at the office.  It might've worked too, if I hadn't been in what she used to call my classic brooding position when she walked in.  Donna knows me too well to be fooled.  At least she used to.  Doesn't stop me from trying.  "It was no big deal, Donna."

Judging from the dubious look, she doesn't believe me, but she doesn't press.  A sign of the times, I guess.  Two, maybe three months ago, nothing would've stopped her from pushing for details.  Tonight, though, she switches the subject to work.  "What can we do to get back the votes?"

"Nothing," I tell her, my laugh unexpected and more than a little bitter.  "Amy's called in all of her chips."

Donna moves forward almost cautiously.  More than once in our time together, she's nearly clobbered me with my own door, bursting into my office without a hint of hesitation; tonight she's moving slowly, her eyes on me, almost as if she's expecting to be banished.  Something inside of me aches at the sight of her so tentative where she was once so confident.  "Because of the marriage incentives?" she asks, genuinely puzzled.

"Yeah."

"But you got an extra billion for child care, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"An extra billion," she repeats, her tone skeptical as she settles into the guest chair.

"Yeah."

"In exchange for--"

"Three hundred million dollars set aside for marriage incentive programs."

She mulls that over a moment, her blonde head bowed slightly.  When she looks up at me, it's almost like old times.  Almost like we never broke each other's hearts.  We slide back into that easy, familiar conversational style.

"Marriage incentives are idiotic," she declares, leaning back in the chair, apparently forgetting her unease.  She always has loved a good argument.

"Right," I answer.  I'm trying not to smile.

"Seriously, Josh, they're a ridiculous idea."

"I know."

"Bribery probably isn't the best reason to marry someone."

I lean back a little further, my hands folded atop my abdomen, and just watch her.  She's a delight when she's using that incredible intellect to puzzle out a political problem.  "I agree."

"It's a waste of 300 million dollars of my money."

I can't help but grin at her.  Can't help but fall back into our old pattern.  "You've never, ever had 300 million dollars, Donna."

She shrugs, unconcerned, and a smile flirts with her lips.  "Still, it's the taxpayers' money, it's going to be wasted."

"You're right."

She shifts in the chair, firing off questions rapidly now.  "Are there any punitive--"

"No."

Donna nods.  "So if a woman doesn't get married, things go along just as they always have?"

"Yes," I answer.  Then frown.  "Well, the work requirement has gone up."

"Hmmm."  One hand lifts and she's tapping a pen against her empty palm.

"Yeah."

"Less time with the family."

"True."

Leaning forward, she rests her elbows on her knees, those blue eyes intent on mine.  "Isn't the lack of affordable child care a major impediment for single mothers who are on welfare?"

"Yes."

"And this bill would give one billion dollars more than we asked for?"

I'm grinning now.  "Yes."

She frowns, just a little.  "There should be more money for job training."

"Yes."

"That 300 million should be used for job training."

"You're right."

"But this is the only way?"

I nod.  "Pintero says it is."

She purses her lips, and I can tell she's debating whether to say whatever it is that's floating around in her head.  She gives me a little shrug and asks, "Then what the hell is Amy's problem?"

And just like that, the familiar, comfortable mood shatters.  Once again, Amy looms between us, symbolic of all the things that went wrong.  With just the mention of her name, Cliff, the diary debacle -- it's all between us again, like a gaping wound.

I can tell exactly when it registers with Donna.  Her expression falters, and she pushes herself upright.  She opens her mouth to speak, no doubt to apologize for badmouthing my girlfriend, but I don't want to hear it.

"I don't know," I tell her, and it's the first honest thing I've said to her about Amy.  I have no idea how to follow it up, no idea how to start this conversation that we really should have.

Donna nods and indicates the door with her thumb.  "Do you want me to get--"  She stops, frowning as she realizes she doesn't know which Congresspersons jumped when Amy called.

Another illustration of how far off our game we've been recently -- I'm finally realizing that we need to fix this thing between us, and Donna's worried about getting some political wonk on the phone for me to harangue.

"Don't worry about it," I tell her, that familiar irritation creeping back into my voice.  "I can handle it."  I raise a hand, no doubt to make some autocratic dismissive gesture, and then the look on her face registers.  I don't like that look; I've seen it before, in other contexts, and it's always been bad news.  I sit up a little, my hand dropping to the desk.  "Donna?"

"What?" she asks, too quickly.  Her fingers are tangling together, strangling the pen in her hands; if she'd thought to bring her planner in here, no doubt she'd be rifling through the pages.  Anything to avoid meeting my gaze.

Trepidation hits me, hard.  "Donna?" I ask again, an edge of panic to my voice.

"Josh, this isn't the time.  We've got--"

"All night," I interrupt, getting up from behind my desk.  I have too much damn energy to sit still. I circle to the door and ease it closed, turning back to her.  She's twisted a little in the chair, but she's not looking at me.  I watch her profile for a moment.  "What's wrong?"

A slight shake of her head.  "Nothing."

"Donna--"

"Nothing, Josh," she answers, turning her head towards me, catching my gaze for a brief moment.  "This can wait--"

"What can wait?" I demand, my voice rising in frustration.  "I don't even know what the hell we're talking about."  Only I think I do.

I hope to God I'm wrong.

But she remains silent, not answering.  Not even moving.

I can't stay still, pacing the depressingly small amount of free space in the corner, edging around my desk until I'm behind it again.  I can't seem to sit down, though.  I just stand there, the tips of my fingers resting on the cool wood, all of my attention focused on the woman in my guest chair.

Finally, Donna swivels to face forward.  She takes a deep breath, hands folded primly on her lap, and says, "Last year, when I applied to Berkeley--"

"No."  It's out there before I can think about what I'm saying.  It's that same feeling I got when I stumbled across her pile of college applications, this sudden, painful understanding that I'm losing her.

She flinches, but presses on.  "I got in.  Mass Communications."

"You're leaving?"  It's not a question, it's an accusation.

Donna ignores it anyway.  "For my undergrad, I mean.  I may have changed majors a lot back at Madison, but I always got good grades.  I still wasn't sure I'd get into Berkeley, so when I did, I..."  She shrugs.  "I asked if I could defer for a year."

I can't describe how hard that knowledge hits me.  I actually move backwards, away from her, away from the implications of her words, and lean my hip against the windowsill.  "So this was your plan all along," I surmise bitterly.  "You know, you could've saved us both a lot of heartache if you'd just told me this was temporary at the start."

Her eyes are sparkling with tears, and I'm trying to tell myself not to care.

"No," she answers softly.  "I didn't think it was temporary."  She smiles ironically.  "Well, I didn't think it was temporary back then.  I thought if the political fallout got too bad--"

"You could run to the other end of the country."  I know I'm hurting her.  I can tell.  She's never been particularly hard to read, not to me anyway, and tonight she's not trying to hide anything.  It pains me to see her hurting, but I can't seem to stop this vitriol.  "No need to move all the way to California, Donna.  All you had to do to end this was fuck some Republican -- Oh, wait.  That's right.  You already did."

The cruel words echo in the sudden, stunning silence.  She's frozen, eyes wide -- hurt, anger and sorrow etched into that expressive face.  I can't believe I said that to her.  I can't think of a way to fix it.  I can't think.

Then Donna takes a shuddering breath, ducks her head for a moment, and turns a blank expression my way.  "You're not going to understand."  Her voice is almost steady.  If I didn't know her as well as I do, I probably wouldn't have caught the tremor.

It's enough to jolt me out of my semi-shock.  My hand lifts from the desk, reaching for her, though she's too far away to touch.  "Donna--"

"I don't know how to say it so you understand," she interrupts, talking faster now, "but I never doubted what used to be between us."

Used to be.

Whatever I was going to say to her dies in my throat.  I have to look away, arms crossing protectively over my chest.

She's still talking.  "I don't know how this fell apart, Josh.  I don't.  But it did, and it's done, and it's time for us to move on."  Another bitter smile.  "For me to move on, anyway; you already have."

I should tell her this relationship with Amy is about many things, none of which is love.  I should explain to her that I'm still reeling from Cliff, from her little affair.  I can't seem to form the words.  I meet her gaze, my mouth open to try to answer her.

"I'm going to Berkeley," she says, her voice quiet but firm.  "Next month.  Classes start in June."

So that's it, then.  This is really how it's going to end.

"Oh."  Not one of my better comebacks, but I honestly can't produce a sentence right now.  My gaze slides away from her, settling on the chalkboard behind her.  "Okay, then," I manage.

She pushes herself out of the chair, her movements stiff, and I realize how that must've sounded.  "Donna--"

"I'll inform the Office of Personnel tomorrow," she interrupts me, her words clipped.  "I'm sure they'll be able to get someone in her before I leave.  So that I can train--"  She stops, lips pressed tightly together, eyes glittering in the dim light of the office.

I'm frozen here, in this moment.  I know, somehow, that I could fix this if I could only find the words.  "Donna..."

She watches me expectantly, but I don't know how to finish that sentence.  Her crestfallen expression when she realizes that I'm not going to say anything leaves me shaken.  She gestures oddly, her hand slicing through the air.  "So I can train my replacement," she says, a slight tremor in her voice.

Before I can answer, she slips out of my office, leaving the door ajar.  I'm immobile, trapped in this hellish indecision.  Should I go after her?  Should I beg her to stay?  Should I do something?

***

I don't know if it was inertia, or stupidity, or my own damn pride that kept me in my office that night.  Whatever it was, looking back, I often curse myself for being such a hard-headed moron.  What kind of man lets a woman like Donna Moss go?

It's been years, and I have no answer to that question.

I haven't fallen apart, though.  Not much.  Professionally, I am doing incredibly well; I even have an assistant who is as efficient as the erstwhile Donnatella, though it took years to replace her in that regard.  Not that I think she can be replaced.  There are many things I'm unsure about; but Donnatella Moss being a singularity -- that one's immutable.  A law of nature.

That I'll never find another person whose orbit I would happily inhabit is also quite obvious to me.  I still keep track of Donna.  She's doing well.  Amazingly so, not that it should surprise me.  Her star burns brighter each year.

I just wish I were still close enough to her to feel her warmth.