Characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, Warner Bros., & NBC. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback. Six Places We May Have Met Violet
1.
Sigma house, orange corduroy armchair in the living room. My knees tucked around you, against the upholstery. Your hand on my neck. Sticky with saliva, spilled booze, sweat.
I'm not the kind of girl you would think does this with strangers at fraternity parties. Sometimes, though, I do. But you're not that kind of stranger. Curly hair thinning, New York accent, no tan. Visiting your baby brother: my age, biochemistry major. He lives here. I don't know him either.
Doing a tequila shot, I made a joke about de Vere and Shakespeare. You were the only one who laughed. I sat beside you. Then in your lap.
Three a.m. now, my girlfriends stumbling home, your brother's brothers unconscious on their beds, the stairs, the couch across the room. Raspy stubble on your chin. Your tongue in my mouth.
I hold you inside me. Miss you already. I've forgotten your name.
2.
This restaurant wants to be a place of power: serious lighting, serious abstract art on the walls, serious prices. I start a tab with a dry martini I can't afford.
Alone at the table, I wait. Waiting is negotiation. So is the candidate's entrance, red hair tortoiseshelled back, casual shoulders in a silk blouse. I stand up; my height should be worth something.
"Sorry I'm late," she says, not bothering with excuses. "This is my husband. Toby Ziegler, C.J. Cregg."
You shuffle over, quiet, refreshing in a suit that's never been trendy. Your hand moves to her back like it belongs there.
"C.J.'s coming to work for me." Before I can protest, she adds, "But we'll talk business later. Let's sit down."
We sit. When I cross my legs, my foot grazes yours by accident. Your eyes are dark, depthless, on me. My drink's too strong, and gone too fast.
3.
I'm late to work for the first time.
My nylons are running. My hair's still damp. I park my car and sprint two blocks beneath a perfect sky. On the way, my heel snaps.
I take both shoes off in the elevator. Dash down the hall, over slippery carpet, into my boss's office. She looks up, mouth opened, ready to scold.
"Sorry, I'm having the worst morning." I shut the door, sigh against it. "My car radio's stuck on, get this, Don Imus. And my shoe broke, and it's hot, and these stockings are falling apart."
"C.J.--"
"I'm taking these off!" I bend down. "Why--"
"C.J.!" She waves a hand. "Anne Dorian's campaign sent a guy over."
You're sitting in front of me, twisted around, eyes inches from mine. Smirking behind your beard.
I do the only thing I can; I shake your hand. "Welcome to EMILY's List."
My brothers complain because the Indians are losing. My father's unhappy because my mother's unhappy. She wanted to go to Napa, to visit family, like every other year. I'm eleven years old, rarely happy. Today I'm uncomfortable. Thrilled. New York is the fastest, loudest, highest place I've ever been.
Someone cracks a foul fly, a comet, to the upper deck. My brothers' hands eclipse the sun. But the ball smacks into someone else's glove.
We turn. You're grinning, a lopsided teenage grin, at your catch. Then you see three jealous boys your age. You shrug, offering the ball.
"It wasn't hit by a Yankee," you say. "Take it. Give it to your little sister."
"Say thank you," our mother says. Tom doesn't, but he passes me the ball. I smile at you before turning around, the baseball cradled in my hands.
5.
The rosewood of a hotel bar, warm in a Washington winter. I'm wearing glitter; you're wearing black.
The band plays a bad instrumental version of this year's biggest ballad, killing time until Auld Lang Syne. We've traded business cards. We're making fun of politicians cutting deals while dancing. Pretending we're above this crowd.
I'm drunk, champagne bubbles behind my eyes. The music squeals. I look down my nose at you. Never taken home a man I couldn't look down at.
My date stood me up. You're unemployed. Nobody here wants us; we're invisible.
I'll undo your bowtie on the way upstairs. Play at pushing your hands away. See how you use your hands, whether you'll make me scream, make me cry.
Your eyes dart to mine; both of those hands on the bar. The light sparks off my dress, off your wedding band.
Too bad. My money was on you.
6.
Central Park is stillness in the city's center. Grass between my toes, sunlight on my shoulders. My handbag for a pillow. Wearing a dress I haven't worn since I left Los Angeles. Nearly every day, I'm homesick.
Crickets and birdsong. I should be on the phone, calling around after my résumé. Instead I'm considering highlighting my hair.
I stretch, wander out of the Park, craving a pushcart hot dog. My sandals slap the sidewalk; spring in my step. An ancient Dodge sputters out of traffic, to the curb, and dies just ahead of me.
You get out of the car with a hand resting on your head. Kick the hell out of one tire, smash a fist down on the hood. "Fuck," you mutter, almost amused. Traffic snakes along. Your hand is bleeding.
I walk up and say a sunny hello. I'm not from around here. But you need me.