"Bullshit! You never loved me, Mandy. Can you blame me for not loving you either?"

It's amazing, sometimes, how words can just hang there, echoing in the sudden silence. All the fight leaves me. I am no longer an enraged participant in the latest of our fights, but an interested observor. How will she react? What will happen next? I should say something, explain what I meant. But I can't seem to *do* anything but stand here and watch her.

Mandy stares at me, her mouth curled up into a sneer and her eyes flashing with anger. "Well, then, fuck you, Josh," she yells.

"Wait," I say, one hand reaching for her. "Mandy, I didn't mean that."

"The hell you didn't," she argues, yanking her suitcase out of the closet. She hurls it onto the bed with so much force it bounces a couple times before settling down.

"Mandy, calm down--"

"I will not calm down, you self-righteous bastard! How dare you say I never loved you? You wouldn't recognize love if it slapped you in the face." She's packing now, folding her perfect suits and her perfect shirts with perfect little snaps of her perfect little wrists.

I cross my arms and lean against the wall, watching her wordlessly.

She glance over at me, her eyes narrowing. "See? You can't even argue because you know I'm right," she spits.

I look up to the ceiling for guidance, then try again. "Look, I don't want us to end like this, Mandy. I don't want us to hate each other--"

"Love and hate are two sides of the same coin, right?" she interrupts, folding her lacy scraps of underwear now. "I think it's my right to hate you, Josh. I know it burns you up to have people dislike you, but you're just going to have to grow up and deal with it. You," she straightens up and jabs the air in my direction, "can be a total prick."

"I'm not disagreeing with you, Mandy," I answer tiredly. "And you're not letting me make my point--"

"This isn't a political discussion, Josh," she snipes. "You don't get a two minute rebuttal about our sex life."

I stare at her for a moment. "Our *sex* life? You're giving yourself away, there, Mandy."

She glares in my general direction and struggles with the zipper. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You didn't say relationship," I answer. "You didn't say love life, or romantic life, or any of those girlie little phrases. You said sex life. And you're standing there telling me you loved me?"

Mandy abandons her suitcase and strides towards me, hands fisted at her sides. "I. Did. Love. You," she says, emphasizing each word. "I did, Josh. You can believe it or not, but it's clear that you wouldn't recognize a lovesick female if she bit you on the ass." Her eyes narrow, and the corner of her mouth turns up slightly. "Or if she drove all the way back here from fucking Missouri to follow you around like a lapdog."

My mouth drops open. "Wisconsin," I correct automatically. "And you're totally wrong about that. Donna is--"

"Spare me." Mandy tosses a hand up and walks back to her suitcase. "I'm out of here, Josh."

"Mandy, can I please--?"

"No, Josh, you can't," she interrupts fiercely. "You had a year and half to explain to me. You had a year and half, Josh, and you didn't bother to fall in love with me. So spare me your rationalizations now, okay?" She walks to the door, the suitcase banging against her thigh. One hand on the doorknob, she pauses without turning back and says, "If you ever felt anything for me, Josh, just let it go."

I can't say anything. I'm completely at a loss.

Mandy's head drops down for a moment, then she straightens her shoulders, gives a bitter laugh, and opens the door. "See ya, Josh."

And then she leaves.

It occurs to me that I'm more disturbed by the implications of some of her comments than by her departure, but I can't even think about that right now.

Instead, I grab my wallet and head for the bar. Might as well get good and drunk. Saves me from having to think, at any rate.

***

"This Mandy chick sounds like a real bitch."

So says Sylvia, my new best friend. Sylvia waits tables at the Marriott hotel bar between 6 p.m. and midnight. Sylvia and I have become very close this past week.

I'm spending quite a bit of time at the Marriott hotel bar these days. Not that I've suddenly developed a drinking problem, although I will admit that working with Josh Lyman could drive a woman to alcohol. No, my presence in the Marriott bar has to do with my new roommate.

Don't get me wrong; I like Carol. She's CJ's new assistant, and it helps enormously to have someone share my expenses. The Marriott is not cheap, and Josh freaks out whenever I suggest moving back to the EconoLodge. Especially since I mentioned how the night manager there used to look at me. So Carol's presence is a blessing. It's just that Carol's boyfriend is in town for the week and we've worked out an arrangement whereby they have the room to themselves between 8 p.m. and midnight.

So every night I come down here, buy a sparkling water and attempt to read. Or at least look like I'm reading so that strange men don't hit on me. Sylvia has taken pity on me; she provides me with refills and conversation as needed. We've become quite close, Sylvia and I. She's heard my horror stories about my parents, my sister Frances and my life with Dr. Free Ride. I've seen photos of her children and learned how her husband was laid off from his job six months ago, which is why she's waiting tables instead of going back to school.

I adore Sylvia. She's funny and she's strong and she's doing this thankless, underpaid job without complaint. Plus she's a fabulous judge of character. I mean, Sylvia's never even met Mandy Hampton and yet she's summed up Mandy's personality succinctly.

I nod morosely. "Mandy keeps saying that she's leaving, but she never really goes away. They break up, and the next week they're back together."

"And this week they're back together?" Sylvia asks.

"Yes, and it's cutting into my life. I mean, look at me here every night. When I made this deal with Carol, I assumed I'd be working late with Josh every night anyway. But Josh is dancing attendance on Mandy, being all Mr. Attentive Boyfriend, and I'm forced to sit here every night like some sort of barfly."

In fact, Josh is probably up there with her right now. They're probably doing it this very minute. Josh is seven stories above me, all hot and naked and sweaty, telling Mandy Hampton that he loves her.

"Barflies," Sylvia points out, "don't drink sparkling water."

He's probably on top. He's such a control freak; I'll bet he insists on being on top. Of course, he is trying to appease her, so it's possible he's letting her run things. Yeah, he's all hot and naked and sweaty and smiling up at her. I suddenly feel the need for alcohol.

"Damn straight," I tell Sylvia. "If I'm going to be a barfly, I might as well get into the part. Bring me a whiskey sour."

"Okay," Sylvia agrees, "but just one."

"Why just one?"

"Because you're depressed. Over a man. Excessive alcohol is always a bad thing under those conditions."

"Josh isn't a man. He's my boss."

Sylvia gives me this strange look. CJ gives me that same look sometimes. I don't understand it.

While Sylvia goes off in search of my drink, I turn to my book. I've read the same paragraph three times, and it's not making any sense. That could be because images of naked Josh keep intruding. It's embarrassing. Also inconvenient. Not to mention unprofessional. The man is my boss; I shouldn't want to imagine what he looks like when--

And anyway he's doing it with Mandy Hampton, and that's such an unpleasant image. Who wants that picture stuck in their heads?

Sylvia sets my whiskey sour down and goes off to see to the next customer. I absentmindedly note that my drink is quite good and resume contemplating naked Josh. I simply must replace the idea of Mandy Hampton in Josh's bed with something more pleasant.

Contrast, that's the key. To be aesthetically pleasing, that image should include someone whose looks are not the female version of Josh's dark hair and eyes. That's the problem. He shouldn't be with a brunette. Maybe a redhead. I conjure up a brief image of Josh and, say, Margaret. I practically spit out my drink. That's definitely wrong.

So what's left? Josh and a blonde.

Oh.

That works. That definitely works.

Maybe it's the whiskey sour, but my mind has gone to such a happy place right now.

Naked Josh and--

"So this is what you do when I give you a night off? Sit in the bar and drink yourself silly?"

Oh, shit.

Why is it that reality always intrudes on my fantasies just when they're getting interesting?

***

Donnatella Moss stares up at me, her pale skin flushed from, one would imagine, excessive drinking. I flash a tired grin and drop into the seat across from her, then glance around in search of a waitress. I could really use a drink. I'll just catch up to Donna, and then I won't have to think about what Mandy said about--

"What are you doing here?" Donna demands. She flushes darker, which I find amusing, and then shrugs carelessly. "I mean, I thought you had plans with Mandy tonight."

My mood darkens slightly. "Not anymore," I answer shortly, twisting in my seat to catch the waitress's eye. She nods and starts over.

"Oh," Donna answers. "Um..."

"Who's your friend?" the waitress asks Donna, tilting her head in my direction.

Donna stares at her for a moment. "He's not my friend. He's my boss. Josh." She glances at me. "Josh, this is Sylvia."

I give Donna an amused look. "So you really do spend your evenings drinking yourself silly."

Sylvia smirks at Donna. "Yeah, I serve her one or two drinks and she's dancing on the tables."

Leaning back in my seat, I shoot Donna an appraising look. "Really?" I ask, drawing the word out suggestively.

"Yes, Josh," Donna answers sarcastically. "I do a little number where I take my skirt and--"

"Can I get you anything to drink?" Sylvia interrupts.

It takes a moment for her words to register, thanks to the image Donna just planted in my head. "Uh..."

"He'll have a beer," Donna says, grinning at me. "Something watery and lame."

"Hey!" I protest. "Something dark and stout."

"Josh, you'll be puddled on the floor after one. Get a Rolling Rock or something."

Sylvia watches our interchange, an amused expression in place. "Want some time to decide?"

"No," I answer, "Rolling Rock is fine."

Donna ducks her head to hide the triumphant grin, swirling her drink around in her glass. Then she raises it in my direction and says "Cheers" before taking an impressively large swallow.

I'm temporarily distracted by the delicacy of her neck as she leans her head back to drink. I don't think I've ever been so taken by the length of a woman's throat before, perhaps because I've been dating a petite--Was dating, I correct myself.

Not anymore.

No more Mandy.

I have a feeling that should bother me more than it does, but before I can fully immerse myself in the brooding, Sylvia deposits a bottle of Rolling Rock before me. I thank her and take a swig.

Donna watches me silently, then closes the book in her lap and places it on the table. I lean my head to the side to read the title upside down. "Against Our Will?"

"You should read it. It's incredibly disturbing."

"I'm sure," I answer noncommittally. This is good. This is nice. Donna and I can just sit down here, discuss political and social problems, drink, and, you know, not have petty fights about stupid slights. Mandy is in the past; I can put her entirely out of my mind and just enjoy the company of my charming, witty assistant. It's refreshing.

"Josh," Donna says quietly. "What happened with Mandy?"

***

"Why do you think something happened with Mandy?" Josh asks. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair and looks away from me. It's his "this is emotional stuff, and I do not want to discuss it" behavior. I stare right back at him with my best "you're going to discuss it, like it or not" face.

"You broke up with her again, didn't you?" I ask.

He takes another swig of his Rolling Rock. He looks so tired; he has those little lines around his eyes that show up when he's stressed or when he's operating on too little sleep. I see those lines a lot.

"I think Mandy would pretty much insist that she broke up with me," he answers with this sad little smile. He studies his beer carefully for a moment. "Yes," he repeats. "I'm pretty sure she'd insist on that."

I reach across the table and touch Josh's hand. "She's done this five times since I started working for you, Josh. She'll come back."

"Not this time. This time was different. Things were said."

"Yeah, well, you should know better than to shoot off your mouth when you're angry."

"Not me. Mandy. Mandy said things."

"What kind of things?"

"Inaccurate things. Very inaccurate things. Very inaccurate things which have no basis in fact."

"Okay." I'm curious, I'll admit, but I'm getting this vibe that's telling me to stay away from this topic. He's acting all, I don't know, dark and brooding. That can't be good, so I shouldn't let him dwell on it.

We sit quietly for a moment. Then Josh squeezes my hand. He stares at our now entwined hands and asks, "Donna, why did you come back to me?"

I should correct him. I should point out that I came back to a job, a campaign--not to him personally.

Except I guess I sort of did. In a strictly platonic way, you understand.

"Because you need me," I answer.

"Yes, but why--" He hesitates like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing. Which is unusual behavior for Josh.

"Why do you need me?" I grin. He doesn't often let me get the upper hand that easily. "Answering that properly might take me a while."

He lets go of my hand, leans back in his chair and grins. "Give it your best shot."

"You're impossible to work with. You're a perfectionist, you're demanding, you have no sense of organization. No one else can put up with you, no one else can make order out of this whirlwind you create around you." This is fun. I'm smiling rather broadly now. "You, Joshua Lyman, are the Tasmanian Devil of politics."

And then he does this amazing thing. He laughs. When Josh laughs like that and his whole face lights up, he is quite something to behold. He's not exactly bad looking at times like that.

"You know," he says, "Mandy was wrong. Mandy was so completely wrong." He takes another swig of beer. "Which is actually kind of sad for me."

"You and Mandy were never going to work anyway." I tell him. And then I realize I've made a big mistake. I mean, telling your boss that his relationship was doomed from the start is not a wise career move. But he looks at me as though I've said something profound.

"Why weren't we going to work?" he asks.

I take a deep breath and plunge in. I've come this far, I might as well tell him what I think. "For one thing, you're too much alike," I say.

"I thought that was good. I thought that meant we were compatible."

I shake my head. "You just sort of doubled each other's faults," I answer. "Like the sarcasm. You can--when you're not being obnoxious, you know--be kind of funny. But with Mandy, you just turn nasty."

"In my own defense, I should point out that Mandy could take it."

"Yes, but--I never detected any affection behind it. Just barbs."

"There was affection. I think. At some point, there seemed to be affection. We had this sort of banter thing going."

I shake my head. I feel very strongly about this. "Those were barbs, Josh. Not banter."

"I need banter," he says. He's studying his beer again. "Barbs I can do without. But I need banter." Then he looks up and stares at me again. "You and I could banter."

"You and I banter all the time."

"And yet it's not nearly enough."

I think I'm blushing. Why the hell is this making me blush?

"Anyway," I say, trying to steer the conversation back to Mandy. "You need someone who can balance out your more unattractive qualities, not exaggerate them."

"I need the anti-Mandy."

"Exactly. Someone who is Mandy's opposite in every way."

"Tall to her short."

"Kind to her--abrasive."

"Carefree to her serious."

"Even-tempered to her belligerent."

"Blonde to her brunette."

Did he have to say that? There's that image popping into my head again.

"Of course," he adds, "if I'm looking for Mandy's opposite, that would also be someone who didn't give a damn about politics. And that would never work. How could I get along with someone like that?"

"Okay, so she has to be in politics. But she doesn't have to be consumed by it. She should be able to, you know, keep things in perspective. Get you away from the office occasionally."

"Well, that's no fun."

"It really is. There is fun to be had in this world that doesn't involve exit polls and campaign platforms."

I swear he snorts. "Not in New Hampshire."

"It's July, Josh. It's the middle of summer. This is when people concentrate on having fun. This is when people go on picnics, take vacations, spend a day at the beach."

"Beaches in New Hampshire. This is not my idea of fun."

"Have you ever tried it?"

"Have you?" He has this gleam in his eye like we're talking about something other than a relaxing day at the beach.

"Not in New Hampshire." I swear I'm blushing.

"So how do you know it's worth the effort?"

"Some things, Josh, you just know on instinct."

"And you have good instincts, do you?" He's talking now in this sexy whisper. How did this happen?

"About beaches?" I'm licking my lips. "Usually."

"I think I'd trust your instincts," he says.

"Then let's do it, baby."

He blinks. "What?" he asks in this rather amusing high-pitched voice.

"You and me," I reply. "Tomorrow. A nice, relaxing day at the beach. Come on, Josh." Okay, I admit it. I actually bat my eyelashes at him. "You know you want to do it."

***

"One day."

"Josh--"

"Leo, one day!" I argue, not wanting to examine too closely why I'm so desperate to spend a day at the beach with Donnatella Moss. I've never been a beach person. I enjoy the ocean in theory--the sound of the waves, the sobering sight of such vast amounts of water. The actuality of sitting on the beach in the blazing sun, with sand ending up in places sand should just never go, and the water murky with seaweed... Just not my thing.

"This is a campaign, Josh. The press doesn't stop on Saturdays. The campaign doesn't stop on Saturdays. And sure as hell the strategizing doesn't stop on Saturdays!" Leo argues.

CJ arrives out of nowhere--it's a really unnerving talent she has--and gives me a quizzical look. "What's going on?"

Leo purses his lips. "Josh wants a day off."

CJ's eyes narrow into twin laser beams of suspicion. "Does this have anything to do with--"

"CJ," I interrupt quickly, "I'm just asking for one day off. Not even a full day. I'll have my pager, I'll have my cellphone, and I'll come in tonight if you need me to. Just one day."

Leo glowers at me some more, but even he can't come up with a reasonable excuse to refuse. I've been working 80-hour weeks for months now. One day off--a Saturday off--is hardly an outrageous request. "Fine," he snaps. "Leave your information with Donna and get out of here."

I'm halfway to the door when his words register. I pause, then decide to play it casual. "I'll leave my info with Margaret," I say, sweeping out the door. "Donna's got the day off too."

"Josh!" Leo yells, but I just keep on going.

*

If this is what the beach is like, no wonder I detest it from afar.

Everything is so bright and primary-colored, like a picture developed by someone with a bit too much zeal. There is fluorescent everywhere. Now, I don't claim to be Mr. Fashion, but didn't glow-in-the-dark clothing go the way of feathered hair and fishnets? And if not, *why* not?

And the cars--lots of late model convertibles with stereos blaring, some souped-up mid-80s Mustangs, and a smattering of brightly colored motorcycles. Even behind my sunglasses, I have to squint.

Beside me, Donna glances around and says, "This is interesting."

I raise my eyebrows at her, then resume squinting, "Interesting?"

She gestures towards the darkest white person I've ever seen, a slightly pudgy woman in her 60s with bleached blonde hair and the skimpiest bikini I've ever had the displeasure of seeing in person. I avert my eyes and comment, "'Interesting' wasn't the word I was going to use."

Donna laughs and slugs me in the arm. "Cut it out, Josh. Just, you know, go with it."

I make a point of flicking my gaze to the most egregious fluorescent-wearers and hair-teasers around us and then give Donna a look. "Go with it? That's your advice?"

She flashes a grin in my direction. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

Before I can toss a witty reply her way, she begins threading through the tiny nation states delineated by groups of mismatched blankets held down at the corners by shoes, bottles of sunblock, and the occasional, ignored hardcover. How anyone can be in the presence of a book and choose to lay there like a slug instead of read it is beyond me.

I roll my eyes in wordless protest, then follow Donna into the fluorescent fray. When my shoes start to fill with sand, I pause to slip them off. I speed up significantly when my bare feet protest prolonged contact with the burning bits of silicone. At one point I earn a glare from a young couple with bodies that should be illegal because I "accidentally" stepped on their blanket on my way past.

Donna somehow manages to locate a free spot of sand approximately six feet by four feet. I stand there, trying to look disapproving, an aura that I suspect is ruined by the ridiculous way I'm hopping from foot to foot.

"Here?" I demand.

Donna waves her arm around. "Do you see anywhere better?"

I point up the beach. "I can see the car from here, yes."

"Joshua, would you at least try to have a good time," she answers.

"By baking myself until I get all burnt around the edges? That's not really my idea of a good time."

"Hey," interjects an unfamiliar voice.

I glance over my shoulder to see a brunette in her mid-twenties glaring up at me.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"You're in my sun," she answers sourly.

Just to be obstinate, I plant my feet in the sand, ignoring the burning and the pain, and stare back at her.

"Asshole," she mutters, shifting on her towel carefully.

I turn back to Donna, who's glaring at me. She expertly snaps her towel in the air and it settles perfectly onto the sand. I drop my backpack next to the corner of her blanket, tug out a towel I liberated from the Marriott, and attempt to mimic her actions.

Several minutes later, Donna has situated my two blinding white towels sufficiently, and I plop down, flexing my poor, burnt feet. Geez, my legs are pale--they're reflecting almost as much sun as the white towels. I reach behind my head, tug my t-shirt off, and stuff it into my backpack. Just as I suspected, my chest is paler, if possible, than my legs.

I glower at the perfectly tanned, toned, nubile young bodies surrounding us and groan. "This," I begin, turning to Donna, "was a really--"

Donna finishes wriggling out of her shorts and gives me a curious look. "What?"

It's possible that the sudden wave of languorous heat moving through my body has very little to do with the blazing sun. Donna's long, shapely legs, however... Well, let's just say that she's a sight to behold. Especially considering that when she eases her tank top off, she's clad only in a bikini. A deep blue, very small bikini. One that shows off her thin yet shapely frame to every advantage.

"Josh?" Donna prompts.

I tear my gaze away from her breasts--thank god for sunglasses--and comment quite succinctly, "Huh?"

"You were saying?" Donna's smiling now. She settles onto her blanket, reaching up past her head to fish a book from her bag. The movements of her lithe limbs, the way she twists and stretches--

I flip onto my stomach. God, I need some very cold water. "What?" I manage. Hey, at least it was an actual word this time.

Donna turns on her side, one hand propped underneath her head, and the other resting on the book just in front of her abdomen. Her legs are curled slightly and I have the sudden, stunning image of Donna in this pose in my bed. With no beach, no blanket, and, most importantly, no bikini.

"You," Donna explains, "were saying something--I assume about our trip to the beach." She gives me an expectant look, her free hand reaching up to smooth a stray blonde lock back.

"Yes," I nod. "I was saying that this--"

I break off as she shifts again, swallowing hard against the need to lean forward and kiss her.

"I was saying that this was a really good idea."

*

So there has to be a logical explanation for the sudden lustful thoughts I seem to be having about my assistant.

There really has to be, cause I can't just, you know... whatever.

There has to be a reason. And it has to mean that this is just an aberration of some kind. For example, it could be because I haven't had sex in a long time and she is undeniably a gorgeous woman.

Except that I've had regular sex for the past year and a half. Well, almost regular. Ignoring those times Mandy and I broke up for whole weeks at a time.

Ah, but perhaps it's because the sex with Mandy was never that good.

Only that's not true. It wasn't great, but it certainly wasn't bad. Not that I've ever really experienced *bad* sex. I think that might be a myth.

Okay, so if it's not a lack of sex--or a lack of good sex--in my life, why am I suddenly in lust with Donnatella Moss?

It's got to be just the shock of seeing her in a bikini. Of seeing that she's a woman. And, yes, I was fully aware of her gender before today, but I'd never, you know... *seen* her like this. She's stunning. That body just goes on for days, and then she looks at me and smiles and--

Hold up. That is the absolute wrong direction for my thoughts. If I can just figure out why I'm having such a strong reaction to Donna today, I can figure out how to stop it. Which is imperative. I cannot be sitting in meetings with, say, Leo and be suddenly dumbstruck when Donna comes in with a note or a folder because I'm picturing the way her bikini kind of gapes a little bit at the sides of her breasts, and that I just want to--

Okay. So this isn't really working at all. I think my back is burning, but I haven't yet been able to be sure I can lay face up without giving Donna a pretty big clue about--

"Josh?"

I jerk my head around to look at her. She's on her stomach now, her arms folded beneath her head, and she's watching me with a small smile on her face. "Yeah?" I manage.

"I think you might be burning."

I blink at her. "What?"

"Your back." Her smile widens. "You're looking a little flushed."

I resist the urge to bury my face in the sand and suffocate myself. Instead, I awkwardly glance over my shoulder. "I'm just hot."

Donna's smirking now, as she pushes herself up onto her hands, then sits back on her knees. "Me too."

I bite back a groan. She is so hot.

Donna glances over her shoulder at the ocean. "Time for a dip?"

I prop myself up on my elbows and twist a little to look at her. "No, I'm good."

"Josh, you said you were hot. The water here is quite chilly. Do you realize the northern Atlantic gets the warmest in December and the coolest in June?"

"So?"

Donna smiles at me, and she is just a goddess. "So, the water will feel wonderful. Come on."

I have visions of other things that would feel wonderful, which is not helping my main problem right now. I shake my head again. "I'm not a big swimmer."

Donna pouts a little. "Fine, but you'd better let me put some more sunscreen on you before I go into the water. You're still flushed and I don't want you to get burned." She tilts her head to the side a bit. "Or you could flip over. Your--" She clears her throat. "Your chest is a little pale too. You could use some sun on your front."

Not when she's in a bikini and two feet to my left. "I'm comfortable like this," I tell her. I hope that sounded more convincing to her than it did to me.

Donna watches me for a moment, then nods. "Okay." She rises and knee-walks over to me, grabbing the sunblock from beside her. "I'm going to reapply so you don't burn," she tells me.

I stare, transfixed, as she pours a respectable-sized glob of suntan lotion onto her hands, rubs them together, then reaches for my back.

Then I collapse onto the blanket. I am never going to be able to get up.

***

10.20.04