He still hadn't decided whether it was a nightmare or a dream. He was haunted by a persistent vision that only came to him when he was lying in bed, trapped in the hazy middle ground between sleep and wakefulness.
She was there, as always. She had become a staple of his unconsciousness.
* * * * *
"Here," she announces. "I brought you your coffee and bagel . . . and my resignation."
He sits there stunned, incapable of giving voice to just what he's feeling - uncertain of just what that is. Finally, he speaks. "Your . . . resignation?"
"I'm leaving, Joshua," she announces, but makes no move to do so.
Instead, she slides the bagel and coffee cup aside and perches on the edge of his desk. "I'm setting you free."
He shakes his head as if his brain were an Etch-a-Sketch and the action would clear his mind and allow him to reorganize his jumbled thoughts. "Setting . . . me . . . free?"
"Mmm-hmm . . ." It seems to him as though she's smirking, and he wonders if she's playing yet another elaborate joke on him.
"Hmmm . . ." He sits back, and returns the smile. "Very funny, Donna."
He reaches for his letter opener and slits the envelope carefully.
Unfolding the sheaf of paper, he skims it. "And very thorough, too, I see. Congratulations. For a minute there, you had me. Now get back to work."
She narrows her eyes. "This isn't a joke, Josh."
"Oh . . ." It begins to sink in. He watches her watching him, and notices that she seems anxious, as though waiting for his next move.
He wonders though, what that is. "What's going on?"
"I told you that already . . ." This time he's certain; she's smirking. "I'm setting you free; you're no longer going to have to deal with having me as an assistant. From now on, I'll just be Donna to you. Just . . . Donna."
"But I need you." He feels like a petulant child.
At this, she tosses her hair and crosses her legs. Legs. Long legs. Hair. Long hair. Pause. Long pause. "You can get another assistant, Josh."
He stands up and places his hands on either side of her, his face only inches from her. "I dont want another assistant. I . . . want . . . you."
The double meaning of his statement hits him like a fist to the gut. He pushes back from the table and rakes a hand through his hair. "You didn't say where you were going." It comes out like a question.
"Lateral move," she tosses off-handedly. "I'll be an assistant to the economic advisor."
"I see." He pauses for a moment thinking. "So, you wouldn't be in the West Wing anymore."
She swings her legs casually, and for the first time, he notices that she's not wearing stockings.
"No . . ." she answers, and as though aware of the lack of conviction in her voice, she repeats, "No. I won't."
He smiles - a thin upturn at the corner of his mouth that slowly spreads to his cheeks in the form of dimples, and finally turns into a full-fledged grin. "Setting me free," he mutters, the faintest trace of a gleeful chuckle tempering the edges of the statement. "That means you're free, too."
At her nod of confirmation, he leans back in against the far wall, and tries casually to shove his hands in his pockets. "So, what are you doing tonight?"
* * * * *
His dreams always faded after that. No matter how much he would try to force it, he could never remember her answer. Did she jump gleefully into his arms? Did she ruefully decline claiming she had other plans? Did she scoff at him for misreading her signals? He desperately wished he knew.
Instead, he would awake frustrated, once again. This morning, at least, he had the luxury of being about to punch the snooze button on his alarm clock.
Eventually, he got dressed, tossed back day-old coffee, and trudged to the White House. He had just sat in his chair when Donna walked in.
"Good morning. I brought you your coffee and bagel . . . and my resignation."
END