Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to go free-falling.
It isn't any sort of death wish, by any means: in all these thoughts of hers, there is always someone or something to catch her before she hits the ground. In all honesty, the thought has always been one of those things that stays in the forefront of her mind for a few seconds before disappearing, either because the phone in her office rings, or her cell phone rings, or that certain someone comes wandering in, BlackBerry in hand, to tell her one thing or another about a case.
She used to think that this certain someone might just be one of those people whom she could stand for longer than an hour or two without wanting to kill him, but now she isn't sure.
The first thing Connie does upon getting her apartment is switching off her cell phone, because she doesn't particularly want to get a hold of anyone, and she doesn't want anyone to get a hold of her either. The second thing she does is switch off the hall light she left on, so she'd be able to see, because she knows her apartment inside out and knows there's nothing on the floor for her to trip on.
The red light on the answering machine is blinking. It's late, and she knows she has work in the morning, and she doesn't want to face him, doesn't want to talk to him, knows it's him that's left a message.
And so she ignores it.
Later on, she wonders if it was the best decision to make, because that red light is still blinking.
Earlier on, she was pissed as hell at him, because he's such an idiot sometimes, and every now and then she wants to smack him, but not often, and this time, well…Whoever said working in the District Attorney's office would be easy ought to be shot, Connie thinks, and realizes how this sounds, even in her mind. She takes it back, mentally, of course, because she hasn't actually said it out loud.
He'd tried to say something to her in the courtroom earlier on, but she was still too angry with what he'd said to her back in the office, and so she'd brushed him off. She'd also gone storming out of the courtroom, without looking at anyone, or saying anything, barely able to hold onto anything because her hands had been shaking, and all she could hear in the back of her mind was that conversation, that stupid argument.
It had hurt, really. Not that she was going to admit it to McCoy, and least of all Cutter, what with his comments about using her sexuality to get information, and damn him anyway, who did he think he was?
She turns the music up a little louder in the headphones, because she came home looking for her own space, and she doesn't want to think about him.
After a while, once she can hear her own thoughts again, instead of that conversation, she turns the music down, but keeps the headphones on.
When she'd gotten back to the DA's office after the jury had returned a guilty verdict on "Sugar", a few of the other younger ADA's whom she's known for a while had heard about it and decided to ask if she wanted to join them for drinks. She'd told them no .Not rudely, of course, but in such a way that they could tell she was tired, and what she really wanted to do was go home, maybe sit in the tub for an hour and do absolutely nothing until eight o'clock the next morning.
Of course, as soon as she turned and started walking away, she'd heard them talking, and she knew what they were saying, but it didn't surprise her: a conversation in the Homicide bureau was never just between two people. Somehow, there was always someone else listening in.
The stupid thing about it is that she had come home looking for her own space, a place to get away from everything, and yet the events of the office are still stuck in her head.
She's trying to figure out how ironic this is when the phone rings again.
"If you're screening your calls now, I don't blame you; I know you probably need your space right now, but. I was a jerk, and I'm sorry. I should have told you what was going on, and I shouldn't have said what I did, so when you get this message…"
Connie wonders for a moment when she gave him her home number, and then realizes that she didn't, and he probably looked it up in her file 'cause she turned her cell phone off. She debates for a few seconds as to whether or not she should be annoyed with herself for not bothering to unplug the land line as well.
After a moment, she decides that she isn't, and almost wishes that she'd been standing in front of him to hear him make this apology, if only to see him stuck in that uncomfortable position, yet again.
In the back of her mind, she can almost see him wandering around that office of his, BlackBerry in one hand, that stupid baseball bat in the other hand, and she wonders for a minute what might be happening if she hadn't gone straight home before he'd gotten to the office.
Knowing them, she thinks, wryly, they'd have probably ended up wandering out for drinks on their own, never mind the younger ADA's, and they'd have probably dragged Jack along with them.
The thought is amusing enough to make her laugh.
And as she does, she realizes that in looking for her own space, in looking to get away from everything and everyone, all she's succeeded in doing is nothing, really. So she wanders over to the landline, picks up the phone that she hardly ever uses, 'cause she's hardly ever home, and flips through the caller ID backwards until she finds the number she's looking for.
And then she dials.
Sure enough, on the other side of Manhattan, Michael Cutter is still wandering around his office, exactly the way Connie saw him in the back of her mind, phone in one hand and that baseball bat of his in the other. When the phone rings, he answers it, but before he can say anything, the person on the other line starts off.
"You're right, you are a jerk," Connie tells him. "And you're right about my needing my space, too, but I just thought I'd tell you that I accept your apology."
He doesn't know why he's so relieved by this, but he is. "Don't suppose you really want to talk to me, then," he says.
"You're right, I don't," comes the reply. "But I'm not the type to hold a grudge. I just need to get away from it all for a while."
"You know, if you need anything…" he starts, but she cuts him off, shaking her head even though she knows he can't see her.
"Just space," she tells him. "Room to breathe. A place to call my own."
There is a brief moment of silence, and then she speaks again. "I'll see you in the morning."