Maybe tomorrow.
She watches him walk away, and in the soft glow of after-light, of afterthoughts, Donna pours a drink for herself. She keeps a fifth of scotch—his scotch—in the bottom drawer. It's next to the can opener.
Damn can opener. She smiles, and then she sighs.
When there's no reason of convenience to bring them together, and yet they're together all the same—well, that's when those old whispers start creeping in.
Donna left his side so that she could have more. When they're face to face, she wants more again.
And that's nothing to the heartbeat that strikes up its noisy chorus whenever he says goodbye.
.
She thinks over his smile, over his hard-won respect, and thinks, at least there is no bitterness here. He's always given as good as he gets, has Harvey. He fights her every step of the way when he's put his mind to something, and then tells her that she's won with that smile on his face.
But has she?
Donna sips her drink. There's an ache tracing the lines of her ribs, but it could be just that she's tired. It has been a string of long days for—oh, who knows when it began.
Who knows when any of it began.
(Today's the day you get to meet Donna.)
.
She works late because she has so much to do, and because in the quiet of night, she has time to think everything over. When you're as brilliantly performative as she is, there's more need than ever for curtain calls.
She flattens her hands on her desk, steadies herself, centers herself. She tells it like it is.
But there's something Harvey isn't telling her.
And maybe there's something she isn't telling Harvey.
.
She tried, once. He spoke his heart (oh, what a mess Harvey's heart has always been), and then he said nothing at all, and all she could say to him, all she could tell him, wasn't enough to move the world round again.
Things are better now. And even if they weren't, it doesn't matter. They can't go back.
(You can never go back.)
Donna finishes her drink, picks up her purse, says goodbye to an empty office. It's been a long day.
And it's easier to tell herself that she'll always want more, but that the ache is familiar…even survivable.
Or it least, maybe it is tomorrow.