"Of course it does," Josh whispers back.  His hands have slid underneath my dress in a frantic attempt to pull my pantyhose down.

"Doesn't," I insist.  I removed his shirt several minutes ago, and I was about to start kissing his collarbone.  Frankly, I'm a bit miffed that I have to stop and explain my reasoning here, but I can't be distracted by any troublesome thoughts about leading him on.  We are, basically, over.  I should make sure that's clear.

"And yet look at us," Josh says, a trifle too gleefully, before I can point out my motives.  He attempts a sort of sweeping gesture with his hand.  All in all, the gesture is pretty much a failure; I suppose it's hard to make sweeping gestures when one hand is tucked between your former fiancée's thighs.  I get the idea, however, and stop to look.

The view?  I have Josh pinned up against his office door.  I mean, I am clinging so tightly to the boy that he couldn't move if he wanted to.  Judging by the way he's grinning, however, he's content staying put.  His shirt is on the floor -- I believe I see a stray button nearby; when did that fall off? -- his pants have slid down to his hips and are in danger of sinking to the ground at any moment.  His hair looks as though someone has spent several minutes running her hands through it.  Though, really, that's hardly unusual, given the normal state of Josh's hair.

I don't have a very good view of myself, but my sweater is beside Josh's shirt on the ground, my dress is bunched up around my waist, and Josh is starting to make some progress in separating my pantyhose from my body.

How did this happen?

How did we get from a kiss on the cheek to this?

I seem to remember everyone hugging and applauding and shouting -- Toby, of all people, wanted to dance! -- and then the crowd in the bullpen began to thin out.  Most everyone, I think, ended up going back to the party in search of liquor.  CJ was making noises about calling in the press corps to give them Joey's numbers.  And somehow Josh and I ended up here in his office.

Which was when I closed the door and started playing Workaholic Boss and the Naughty Assistant.

I honestly do not know what got into me.

"You're right," I admit.  I remove his hand from my thigh.  One of us groans, though I'm not sure who.  It might have been a joint effort.  But I need to pull my pantyhose back up.  It will make walking away from him easier.

Physically, at least.

"This was a mistake," I continue.  "But, you know, an understandable one.  Heat of the moment and all that.  Big celebration, easy to get carried away.  Absolutely nothing to feel guilty about."

Great.  I'm babbling, plus I'm speaking in sentence fragments.  No one who knows me as well as Josh does can overlook that.

"Right.  I, for one, feel absolutely no guilt," he replies.  He's still grinning, and I wouldn't put it past him to be doing that deliberately because he knows how the sight of those dimples effects me.

"Well, you should.  You absolutely should feel guilty.  We're in the White House," I remind him.

"You've got a point," he concedes.  "This is slightly on the unprofessional side."

"Slightly?"

"Okay, very unprofessional."

"Yeah, so I'll just go back to my desk, and we will never speak of this again."

I'd leave, but he's blocking the door.  Also, he's taken my hand, and he's rubbing his thumb along my palm.

Right.  So that was definitely me moaning this time.

"What I meant was," he starts, and can I just mention how unfair it is that he's the one capable of coherent speech when I have so many cogent points I could make if my brain and my vocal chords would just reconnect?  But he clears his throat and starts over, so I must be getting to him somehow.  "What I meant was that it's unprofessional to do this here."

"Oh."  Hey, monosyllabic responses are better than no responses at all!

"So," he asks -- and this time his grin is positively wolfish -- "my place or yours?" 

*** 

His place.  Bigger bed.

We make it all the way out of the building before being stopped.

By Amy Gardner.

Yeah, this could be fun in a twisted sort of way.

"J," she says.  I may be snorting.

"Uh," Josh replies.  That's it.  Just "uh."

Amy, meanwhile, is glaring, while Congressman Trophy Date stands behind her, looking puzzled.

Let me spell it out for you, Congressman:  Amy wants Josh.  Josh thinks he wants her.  But only if he can't have me.

I, on the other hand, don't have a clue what I want anymore.

"Amy," Josh finally manages, "I thought you left already."

The Congressman launches into a lengthy explanation about all the Important People who stopped to talk to him on the way out.  Josh pretends to listen, while Amy focuses in on Josh's gloved hand holding mine.  After a minute, Josh realizes what she's staring at and starts to let go of my hand.  I just hold on to him more tightly.  He looks startled but not, I'm thinking, displeased.

"So, J, could we have that talk now?"

I don't know which one of them looks more uncomfortable -- Josh or Congressman Tandy.  Josh, however, is the first to recover.  "Well, the thing is, right now I have to take Donna home."

Amy is very unattractive when her lips are pursed together that tightly.  "Then I'll meet you tomorrow," she says.  "We can talk then."

"What time?" I ask.

"Excuse me?" Amy asks.  Her tone is a little on the "Who invited you to sit at the important people's table?" side.  I hope Josh noticed.

"What time?" I repeat.  "Because tomorrow's schedule is pretty full as it is.  I might be able to work you in around three, but that's only for ten minutes.  He has an hour on Thursday; that's really your best bet if it's something important."

Amy is silent for a minute, clearly deciding whether it's worth making a scene in front of the Congressman.  "Thursday," she concedes.  She takes the Congressman's arm and starts to walk away.

"I'll mark that down in Josh's appointment book," I call out after her.  When I glance over at Josh, he's looking entirely too smug.

"Shut up," I tell him.

"Not saying a word."

"Good."

"If I were to choose a word, however, it might be--"

"I can still go home alone, you know."  I manage a stern tone of voice, but the overall message is probably undercut by how tightly I'm holding onto his hand as we walk.

"Jealous," he finishes.

"You can never leave well enough alone, can you?"

"I'm simply pointing out the little Alpha Female thing you had going on there with Amy."

"Alpha Female?  Is that even a term?  Alpha Male, sure.  But I don't ever think I've heard of Alpha Females."

"And yet."  He's this close to laughing at me.  If we were somewhere private, I'd kiss him -- just to keep him from saying something obnoxious, you understand.

"What can I say?" I shrug.  "I've decided I don't much like Amy Gardner."

"Is that so?"

"Which has nothing to do with you."

"If you say so."  Self-satisfied bastard.

"The world does not revolve around you, Joshua.  I know that comes as a shock."

"No, I figured that one out a couple of months back."

"You even try to make me feel guilty and I am going home alone."

"Fine.  You do that."  From his tone, it's clear he doesn't believe I will.

"This was a bad idea.  Let's forget it."

"Let's not," he says.

Which is when he stops walking, pulls me into his arms, and starts kissing me.  It's fierce, passionate and possessive -- on both our parts, I freely admit.

"What the hell was that?" I ask as we quit kissing and start walking again.  "Are you out of your mind?  We're in public."

"Nobody else is around. I checked."

"Famous last words.  I'm sure that's what Sam said to his prostitute friend just before--"

"This is hardly the same thing," he protests as we reach the car.

I give him the deadliest look I'm capable of after such an intense kiss, and we take our respective seats in his Audi.

It's going to be a long drive.

A long, silent drive. 

*** 

Josh and I haven't said a word to each other for seven minutes.  I think that's some kind of record for us.  But let's face it: talking, at this point, leads to discussion of Josh's misguided pursuit of Amy Gardner.  I would make some excellent points which Josh would find the need to counter by mentioning Cliff Calley.  This would result in my having to tell Josh to turn the car around and take me home.  Not only are we both deprived of sex in this scenario, we undo any progress we've made in the last few weeks toward getting our working relationship back on an even keel.

I hate biting my tongue like this.  Especially when I have so many excellent points to make on the subject of why Amy Gardner is absolutely the wrong woman for Josh.

However, Josh and I don't do silence very well.  Not when we're somewhere between hostile and horny, at least.  I need a neutral topic of conversation.

"So," I start, "Joey's numbers -- Explain to me how this helps."

Josh glances over at me, plainly baffled.  "Of all the things to talk about now," he mutters.

"I'm interested in the numbers," I insist.

"They're pretty self-explanatory.  High numbers good, low numbers bad."

"There's more to it than that," I say, shaking my head a little for emphasis.  "There always is for you."

"What does that mean?  You know--"  He stops, shakes his head, and launches into the explanation of Joey's numbers.  "Okay, we've got two situations going on here.  We've got the actual numbers, and we've got the buzz about the numbers."

"Start with the actual numbers," I suggest.

"That's pretty straightforward.  The higher the numbers, the less uphill the battle we've got during the election.  If voters believe he's a strong, trustworthy leader despite the MS and the censure--"

"Then we don't have to spend as much time convincing them that he can still be an effective president," I conclude.

Josh looks at me again and shakes his head.  "Why ask me these questions if you know the answers?"

"Because you're fun to watch when you're working out the politics.  What about the buzz?"

"That's the interesting part.  The primaries are going to be a bitch."

"I remember."

"What you remember is campaigning for a liberal, New England academic who the pundits said didn't stand a chance in hell of winning.  Third place was a major victory in those early primaries."

"And it's different when your candidate's the incumbent?" I ask.

Josh nods.  "Very different.  The primaries should be a cakewalk.  We shouldn't even face any opposition in the primaries."

"But you think we will, don't you?" I ask.

"I'm expecting it.  Some people in the party -- Seth Gillette, for instance -- see President Bartlet as weak because of everything that's happened since May.  They think maybe they can walk away with the nomination.  And they might not have been wrong, especially if the hearings had dragged on through primary season."

"So how do the numbers help?"

"CJ will get the press spinning the numbers.  With any luck, that will be the news story for weeks.  Every time Brokaw, Jennings and Rather mention the President, or even the censure, they'll mention how strongly the American people support him.  Gillette and anybody else who wants to challenge us will think twice.  Even better, anybody who's thinking about contributing to another Democratic candidate will think twice.  Their war chests will give out before the second primary.  We'll go to the convention virtually unchallenged, and we'll be able to focus our efforts -- and our campaign funds -- on running against the Republicans.  Plus all the Democrats running for Congress or for the Senate or for state office who didn't want to be seen with us a week ago?  They'll be knocking each other down trying to get a photo op with President Bartlet in the next couple of weeks.  You'll see."  He's practically hopping off his seat with anticipation.  I'd be concerned that he seems more excited over primary season than over having sex with me, except that he's so damn hot when he's thinking through all the political angles.  His eyes are gleaming, the way his hands are gripping the steering wheel is putting me in mind of how I've known his hands to grip other things, and that wolfish smile is back.

Thank God we're almost at his place.

"So who do you think the Republicans--"

"That's assuming you'll be there," he suddenly says.

"What?"

"I mean, now that the hearings are behind us, you can quit.  You are still planning on quitting, aren't you?"

"Yes, Josh, I am."

"When?"  He's watching the road very carefully, not looking at me.

"I haven't decided.  It depends on when I start school, I suppose.  I could start in the summer, but I'm thinking it might be better to start in the fall."

"You're still going to Georgetown, though?"

"I haven't decided that either.  I'm looking into--"

"Will you just make up your mind?" he says.  In the close quarters of the Audi, his voice sounds so loud that I flinch.  "Just tell me when you're leaving and where you're going, so I know when to hire somebody to replace you."

"You'll be the first to know," I answer frostily.  And then we're back to the awkward silence.

Josh is the one who speaks up this time.  "It would help if you could stay through the campaign," he says.

"That's November.  I wanted to start--"

"Through the convention at least.  That still gives you time to start school in September."

"Some schools start in August."

"Pick one that starts in September."

"I'm not making any promises."

"Just think about it," he says as he parks the car in front of his building.

Why is leaving him so damn complicated?  It's what I want; I know that much.  But disentangling myself from him -- sometimes I think that's impossible.

"Okay," I agree as I step out of the car.  "I'll think about it." 

***

This is what I meant when I said I didn't know what I want anymore.  This right here.  One minute I'm thinking that he's insufferable, that he's suffocating me, that the best thing I can do is to disentangle myself from him personally and professionally as soon as possible.  And then he'll do something or he'll say something, and I'm pulled back into remembering why it was I fell in love with him in the first place.  If given the opportunity, Josh would start waxing eloquent about Dogstars and gravity and sparkly space dust.  Pretty imagery, but it doesn't explain this mess we've made of our relationship.

Yeah, I know.  Josh would insist that I'm the one who's ruined our relationship.  Assuming that "relationship" is even the proper word anymore.  Whatever it is, maybe my metaphor was better anyway.  Maybe he's Peter Pan, refusing to grow up, playing games with the pirates of the Republican Party.  And I'm still Wendy, needing to leave Neverland so I can grow up, but still vulnerable to his charm and therefore reluctant to return to an ordinary life.

Whatever it is, despite all the resentment on my part and the bitterness on his, tonight all I can think about is how much I've always wanted him.  And how damned angry I am that he still has this power over me.  Five minutes after walking into his apartment still smarting from the latest round of "I quit"/"I'm not stopping you," look at me.  I started ripping his clothes off the minute he closed the door, and I've been going at him with a ferocity that's really kind of unusual for me.  I've stripped him down to his boxers without letting him take one stitch of clothing off me.  I've currently got his hands pinned against the wall (after enduring many unamusing gibes about my control fetish, which is so very much a case of the pot introducing itself to the kettle).  From the way I'm kissing him, you'd think that this is a new activity for us.

God, this is why I hate myself; I can be absurdly weak where he's concerned.  Especially when he just stands there and lets me do all this, because he knows me better than anyone ever has or ever will; and he knows that after Cliff and the diary and now his ridiculous pursuit of Amy Gardner, the balance between us is upset.  I need to be the one in charge for a while if we're ever going to reach a place where we can be together without any residual bitterness.

Assuming I want us to be together.

Beyond tonight, I mean.  I'm very clear about wanting to be with Josh tonight.  After that, I don't know.

Why the hell can't I make up my mind about anything?  What is wrong with me?

I let go of his hands and step back for a second, just to look at him.  To try and figure out what it is I want.  You can't really tell during the course of a normal work day, underneath the business suits he usually wears, but Josh has a beautiful body.  Not in a male model sort of way -- except for the arms; I dare you to find a man with better arms anywhere on this planet.  No, what I'm talking about is how even his scars and his flaws suit him so perfectly.  Because that's who he is:  A scarred, flawed, but ultimately beautiful man.

How could I have forgotten all that?  How could I have let these other things come between us?  How could I have forgotten, even for a minute, everything Josh is?  Here is this man who is capable of playing the dirtiest politics DC's ever seen, but who loses sight of a solid re-election strategy because he's incensed over the number of deaths the tobacco industry causes every year.  This man who was nearly murdered by white supremacists but who refused to sue the Ku Klux Klan because that seemed to him like a trivial gesture.  This man who can take his silly little science obsession and turn it into a breathtaking metaphor to explain our relationship.

Plus there's the fact that he has the hottest arms on the planet.

And an unfortunate habit of grinning like this is some sort of contest and he's winning.

"So," he says, "this is a whole new side of you."

"Is not," I answer.  I have to get him to shut up.  Because I know Josh.  I know where he's going with this, and I don't want to get into all that tonight.  If we get into that, I'll remember the many, many reasons I should walk away from him right now.  I'll remember that sensation of suffocating from being nothing more than Josh Lyman's assistant/lover.  I'll remember that I haven't forgiven him for flaunting his pursuit of Amy Gardner in front of me, and he sure as hell hasn't forgiven me for Cliff.  Then there will be nothing left between us except the anger and the resentment, and I don't know how I could live with that.

So I start nipping at this spot right behind his ear, which I know from past experience is particularly sensitive.

"My point…" he starts.  Then his train of thought apparently derails, and he lapses into moaning.

I rub up against his erection.  "Yes," I tease him, "I can feel your point.  It's a lengthy point.  And very firmly made."

Josh shoots a moderately annoyed look in my direction, takes a deep breath, and starts over.  "The point I was attempting to make--"

"We should do it right here," I whisper into his ear before he can say something that will ruin what's happening between us.  "Forget about the bedroom."

"As I was saying--"

"Right here, Josh.  On the floor."  I start pulling his boxers down.  "Right now."

Frowning, he puts his hand over mine to stop me from undressing him.

"I merely wanted to point out that you're exhibiting an unusual amount of aggression tonight," he says in that overly casual tone he goes for whenever he's trying to convince me that the subject we're arguing doesn't matter to him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"  It's coming back -- all the pain, all the resentment.  Because he always says these things, these absolutely wrong things, that just prove why we have no business being together.  Like now, because I can tell he's going to turn this into some sort of smartass remark about my sleeping with Cliff.

"Just what I said."

"Are you suggesting that I'm normally passive?" I ask.  "Because I don't think, in all fairness, that anyone would characterize me as passive."

"No."  He backtracks, finally aware of the fact that I don't appreciate what he's insinuating.  "No, no, no, no.  Not what I meant at all."

"Because if you review all the previous times we have done this--"

"Which I do.  Frequently."

"I think you will have to agree that I am often the one who initiates--"

"And I appreciate that.  Each time."  He attempts to pull me into his arms.  I, however, am having none of that.  Because I know him too well.  I know how he can say something funny and endearing and then turn it around into an insult about how I've messed up my life.  I'm not letting him touch me, not until I know he's not going to say those kinds of things to me again.  So I move out of his reach.

"In fact, if you will remember the very first time we ever did this--"

"Believe me, every detail of that night is burned into my brain."

"You will see that I was the one who made the first move."

"I'm not sure I'd go as far--"

"If we'd left it up to you, we'd still be dancing around each other, pretending we can ignore the obvious."

"Well, that might be something of an overstatement."

"No," I snap.  Because I promised myself I was never going to let myself get back to this place where he could break my heart if he cared enough to try.  Besides which, he's wrong, and you can't let him get away with his obvious misstatement.  "It isn't."

"Still, my point here regards tonight.  And I think I'm enough of an expert on the sexual behavior of Donnatella Moss to notice some distinct differences in your behavior," he says with this infuriating smile, the one that usually means he's winning some particularly nasty battle.

I should have known he'd do this.  He's just determined to ruin what I was hoping would be an uncomplicated encounter.  I should have known he wasn't going to let this occasion slip by without taking the opportunity to make a few snarky remarks about The Cliff Fiasco.

Crossing my arms in what I hope comes off as a defiant rather than a defensive gesture, I decide to let him make his little witticisms and get it over with.  He'll keep making snide comments until he thinks he's won his argument, after all.  This is what he does.

Yeah, I'm starting to remember all the reasons I wanted to leave him.

"Distinct differences?" I ask.

"I'm just saying that you're lacking your usual level of finesse is all."

"Finesse?"

"Finesse," he repeats.  "This has been more, I don't know, fierce.  I feel like I'm being -- don't you dare laugh -- ravished or something."

Well, of course I laugh.  "Josh, honestly, have you been reading romance novels?"

"You know what I mean."

"I'm pretty sure I don't."  Thank God I'm a better liar than he is.

He blushes.  Josh actually blushes.  Who knew it was even possible?  "I kind of like it," he says in this soft voice.

"Really?" I reply, moving closer to him again.  Maybe I was all wrong.  Maybe whatever is going on inside his head, it's not about still being angry with me over Cliff.  If he were angry, he wouldn't let me see this -- that endearing, vulnerable side that he tries to hide from the world.  Maybe I'm projecting out of guilt, or maybe -- Who knows?  Who cares?  He's incredibly sexy when he lets his guard down like this.  I grin, moving closer toward him.  "My, isn't this a revelation?"

"I wouldn't want a steady diet of this or anything--"

I nod.  "Because you are, after all, a manly man."

Josh frowns, which is quite appealing.  What does it say about me that I'm turned on by the crinkles in his forehead and the appraising stare in those brown eyes?

"You're mocking me," he points out.

"How astute of you to notice."  I am, it should be noted, grinning like the village idiot.

"I'm not a fan of the mocking."  Josh tries to look stern, but he's this close to smiling.  I can almost see the dimples.

"And yet it's a skill I learned at your feet."

"Well, you had a natural aptitude."  He's given up on looking stern and is wrapping his arms around my waist.  "Still, I'm not fond of being the object of the mocking."

"Josh?" I whisper, draping my arms around his neck.  "If I declare a moratorium on the mocking, can we get back to the sex?"

He tugs my dress up around my hips and presses his erection against me.  Right.  So much for liking my being the aggressor.  "I think we're pretty much going to have to get back to that soon," he murmurs.

The next thing I know, we're pushing and pulling at each other until we're both naked and on to the floor.

Oh, well, I've always been in favor of an equal relationship anyway. 

*** 

There is much to be said in favor of spontaneity and abandon in a sexual encounter.  On the other hand, comfort really cannot be overrated.  Especially when the encounter is over, and you realize that your naked body is sprawled inelegantly on a hardwood floor.  In January.  Josh seems appallingly indifferent to the fact that I am shivering and covered in goosebumps.  Or, knowing Josh, he probably interprets this as some bizarre indication of his sexual prowess.

He gives me a quick hug, kisses my forehead and mutters something about only taking a minute.  My rapidly freezing brain doesn't immediately understand that he's going to dispose of the condom.

Yet another point of contention.  He wasn't at all happy when I pointed out that he'd need one.  His exact words were "What?  You went off the pill?"  So I had to remind him that this wasn't like last year when we'd both been celibate for a lengthy period of time.  That since I was with someone else a few months ago, extra precautions were a good thing.

While he showed admirable restraint in not making any sarcastic remarks about Cliff, his displeasure was entirely too easy to read in the ensuing silence and in his sudden inability to make eye contact.

However, I'm too cold and tired to figure that out now.  I want to fall asleep under a nice warm blanket, and Josh's bed is nearby.  I've crawled under the covers and am half way to falling asleep when I hear a slightly panicked voice calling, "Donna?  Donna, where are you?"

"Stupid question," I mutter just as Josh steps into the bedroom.

The light from the hallway gives him a sort of golden glow and highlights the relieved expression on his face when he registers my presence in his bed.

"Don't do that again," he says, leaning against the doorway a little too casually.  "When I came back and you weren't there--"  He shakes his head like he's trying to figure out a puzzle.  "Just don't do that again."

"Josh," I reply, turning back over on my side and closing my eyes, "I'm cold, I'm tired, the bed is more comfortable than the floor, so I came in here, okay?"

"Okay."  I feel an extra blanket being thrown over my body and then Josh is in bed, pulling me into his arms.

We stay like that for a minute, my head resting on his chest, his hand gently stroking my hair.  I'm on the verge of sleep when Josh says, "So I guess this means you're not going anywhere."

I don't want to open my eyes; I want to ignore him and pretend I'm already asleep.  However, I know Josh well enough to know that he won't leave this issue alone until he's won.

Which isn't going to happen.  For any number of reasons.

"That's not what this was about, Josh.  This was about--"  I start to say it was just about sex, but that isn't the truth.  I take a deep breath and start again.  "Honestly, I'm not sure what this was about, but it isn't that simple.  We can't make love once and say that solves all our problems.  It's all more complicated than that."

"How?"  He lets go of me, grimacing and rearranging his upper body against the pillows.  The part of myself I have come to hate these last few months -- the part that automatically worries about him -- wonders whether his back is bothering him again.  "Just explain to me what's so damn complicated.  Because I thought we were doing just fine until you decided that I made you so miserable you had to go have a one-night stand with your little Republican friend."

That tone of his -- the barely contained anger, the sarcasm -- makes me flinch, mostly because I know I've hurt him.  I know I'm the one who damaged this relationship beyond repair, and I can hardly blame him for being bitter.  But still, I know what comes next.  I know that we'll start sniping at each other again, and I'll start resenting him, and all the love and affection I was feeling a few minutes ago will disappear.

I should never have gone home with him in the first place.  I mean, it was one hell of an orgasm, but was it really worth this?

"You talk like I slept with Cliff to punish you, and that's not what happened.  It had nothing to do with you."

"The woman I was planning to marry sleeps with another man, and I'm supposed to believe it has nothing to do with me?"

When I'm by myself, I have no trouble understanding why I did what I did with Cliff.  I can explain my motivation, I can comprehend exactly how my relationship with Josh fits into it, I can figure out what I need to do with the rest of my life.  It's only when I'm around Josh, when he glares at me the way he's glaring now, that everything becomes so complicated.

"I'm sorry, Josh.  I'm sorry that what I did hurt you.  I'm sorry that things aren't going to work out between us.  But every time I even try to explain, you get so angry--"

"Hell, yes, I'm angry."  He makes a sweeping gesture to indicate the bed and the space between us.  "You took this and you ruined it.  You fucked another man," he yells.  "And all I get by way of explanation is this bullshit about how it's your life and it's none of my business.  Hell, yes, I'm angry."

I can't look at him, partly because I don't want him to see me crying and partly because I can't stand to see the rage I know will be on his face.  I get out of bed, wrapping a blanket around myself.

Doesn't help.  I still feel cold.

"We're always going to be like this, aren't we?" I ask.  "You're never going to get past this.  Yet another reason this thing between us would never work."

If he'd just tell me to come back to bed, maybe that would help.  If he'd just hold me while I tried to explain everything I've been feeling, maybe I could find a way to make him understand.  But he doesn't do any of that.

"I don't know," he says.  I still can't look at him, but his voice sounds different -- ragged, hoarse and softer than normal.  Like he has no energy left.  "I suppose we could just agree not to talk about it anymore."

"And it would still be right there beneath the surface, and sooner or later we'd end up hurting each other."

"As opposed to the fun we're having now?" he asks with a bitter laugh.

"Yeah," I answer.  "As opposed to that."

There's not a lot left to say.  He offers to drive me home, but I call a cab instead.  I couldn't stand another silent car ride with Josh, and I don't think we could use politics to distract ourselves this time.

Josh stays in the bedroom while I wait for the cab in the living room and stare at the poster I gave him for his last birthday.  It's the Dogstar, Josh's metaphor for our relationship.  Two stars that orbit each other; he can turn that image into something poetic and astounding when he wants.  But a darker meaning for that metaphor occurs to me as I stare at the poster and think about why Josh and I bounce between love and resentment these days:  It isn't easy being trapped in another star's orbit.  You want to break away; you'd be better off if you could find your own path, be independent.  Yet no matter how desperately you try to separate, his gravity pulls you back down.

Until there's nothing left but this orbit neither of you wants any longer and the constant pain of trying to break free.

THE END

01.29.02