everything they've ever said about new york city is a lie
by august (appelsini@h...)

cj/toby. r. spoilers to the end of season three.





I.

He sends her a text message that reads, 'did you know Jim Bacon's wife is 
called Honey? As in, Honey Bacon.'

She erases the message. Later, she turns the volume down and watches the 
cell light up, flashing his name. He once told her he only lets a phone ring 
five or six times. Liar, she thinks, watching the screen flash. Eleven, 
twelve, thirteen.

There are many ways to leave someone.

Growing old together, taking separate holidays. Car accidents. Alcohol and 
television. Alcohol and women, alcohol and men. Terrified of being the one 
who loves the least. Terrified of being the one who loves the most.

They've stopped and started so many times that the idea of an anniversary 
seems ludicrous. Still, he sends her e-mail promising lobsters, vodka and 
Borodin. She smiles when she reads it, but it's not long before she wonders 
whether this is what he did with his ex-wife. Whether he fucked Andi on a 
balcony, vodka in his veins and violins pricking his skin.

She knows it's not her place to forgive him for marrying someone else. 
Still, she reads his e-mail and a part of her knows she never will. And that 
night, she watches him leave the office, she works late, she drives straight 
past their house. It's two am when she unlocks the front door. There are six 
missed calls on her cell phone and he's already in bed.

Later, she asks him, "do you miss Andi?"
He doesn't answer straight away, waits before saying, "I don't feel 
divorced. I don't love her any less."
Before saying, "it didn't end CJ, not really. There were just, limits."



II.

She expected him to say, "because Andi's never left me" or "because Andi'll 
never leave". Instead, almost angrily, it was, "because I love her, CJ." She 
at once felt chastised and embarrassed. She finished her drink, smiled her 
way through his words, and assured him she would be at the wedding. She slid 
off the barstool like she wasn't choking for air.

During the taxi ride home, she thought that if she could name it, it would 
be disbelief. Disappointment. Despair. Something else starting with 'd'. 
Drunk.



III.

Everything they've ever said about New York City is a lie. She's crying her 
little heart out in Times Square, and people stop to ask her if she is 
alright, if they can call a cab. A woman says, "he's not worth it, honey."

She says, "I'm alright", "no thanks" and "I know." Mostly because she can't 
say, "someone just shot my bodyguard, who I kissed, despite having a partner 
of I-don't-know-how-many years."

She's crying her little heart out and she half-expects someone to find her, 
to wrap a coat around her, to lead her home.

When she walks back to the theatre, finally, there are photographers. She 
stops to let them take pictures. Grief and confusion are made for page 
three.



IV.

She leaves him a hundred times in her head, a hundred times, easily.

Two men walk by carrying squash racquets. He leans against the railing and 
her arms are across her stomach. It would feel like an ending if he weren’t 
standing in front of her, if he wasn't wearing the red tie she hates.

"I'm sorry."
"I know," he says.

Each time, each year, it was the stupidest things that brought her back. He 
tuned the presets on her car radio. He took out the cigarette lighter to 
stop her smoking. He programmed a reminder to buy milk into her phone.

He says, "we need to move somewhere warm, somewhere it doesn't snow. You 
always leave me in winter."

She smiles but his eyes are serious and it breaks her heart. She's miserable 
that he's scared of her, like this, that they're scared of each other. He's 
leaning against the rail and his fingers are white where he grips the 
take-out coffee. She almost reaches out, almost grabs at his tie to pull him 
to her. He's leaning against the rail, hurting and white-fingered.

She says, "move somewhere it doesn't snow? You gonna wear Bermuda shorts?"
He pushes out breathe between his teeth and it's almost a laugh. "Maybe. 
Yeah. I have excellent knees."

They laugh, and she thinks it's because they both know they'll never leave 
Washington. She's not sure they won't leave each other, but she knows they 
won't leave Washington.

He flicks his wrist to glance at his watch. "I have to go."
She wants to ask him why he hasn't touched her since New York; if he plans 
to touch her again. She wants to tell him that she'll never voluntarily go 
to New York City again, and that's not about sadness, it's about guilt.
She says nothing.
She says, "okay."
She says, "wait up for me, tonight?"

He nods, and walks away. She watches him, smiles as he tosses his cardboard 
cup towards a trashcan and misses. She smiles that he stops, waits and then 
bends down to pick up the cup.

He is in bed when she gets in that night. A note on the table tells her 
there is take-out Chinese in the fridge, waiting.







dancing where the evening fell
http://appelsini.tripod.com/sub-index.html