The Black Dress
Author: Nefret24
Disclaimer: I do not own any part or parcel of the West Wing, none of their characters, plots or anything. BUT if I DID, you can be damn well sure I wouldn't have killed off Simon. Harumph.
Category: CJ ficlette, Posse Comitatus fic. I think you know what this means. ANGST ALERT.
Author's Note: Okay, so was originally planning on disliking Simon because Mark Harmon led to the doom of "Moonlighting." Truth be told, he really enlivened the show, which in my humble opinion, spiraled downwards these last few precious eps of Season Three ::cough:: amy ::cough:: ::hack:: terrorists:: ::cough cough cough:: I swear, by the end of Season Four at this rate everyone in the West Wing will have consulted Stanley the Shrink (in secret conferences of course) because of Sorkin's maniacical obsession with shooting and/or killing people in the season finale. Okay, ranting over. All I really wanted to say was that I'm not typically a CJ fic writer but I do love her terribly and wish I could do her justice. She deserves it, frankly.
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It's cold.
I shiver uncontrollably again, my spine feeling as if it's constructed of creaking icecubes, splitting one by one and chilling my blood.
I shouldn't have worn the dress. The two thin straps that hold it upright are as tenuous as my grip on reality right now. I wish I had more than this flimsy shawl to wrap around myself, to shut out the cold.
Thing is, the lady sitting next to me on this bus stop bench isn't cold. She doesn't have a jacket. She doesn't need a shawl. Freakish, almost summer weather makes the night deliciously mild. The lady just looks at me and slowly inches further and further away, bewildered and frightened of the crazy lady who's thyroid has suddenly gone way off balance.
I should laugh at that. I should laugh at how a sob catches in my throat when I think about how his arms could curl around my shoulders where my shawl now rests and keep in the heat. He never did anything like that, never had a chance to get any closer than that one kiss.
He wasn't a lover, he wasn't a boyfriend and I had barely known him. I didn't know what his favorite food was, what kind of music he listened to, if he had a pet. And I was crying, dispelling every ounce of spare fluid I had in my body out my tear ducts on this street corner, looking every inch the madwoman, because he was gone and I would never know.
I could see the stains appear on my lap, tiny rivulets of deeper black on black. The dress my stalker had liked. The dress he had admired. The dress I loved. My quasi- widow's weeds that now left me shivering at a warm breeze.
A bus pulls up and the woman, relieved, gets up and hurries onto the bus, leaving me alone. Again. As usual.
Spontaneity is all well and good but I wish I could have something constant, a touchstone, anything to keep me from reeling off into the void.
And I don't. Work is an ever changing beast, and that is my life. No one or thing to come home to- hell, Gail lives at work and it's a miracle she lasted that long. And Simon is gone and the only thing I have to remember him by is a bruise on my ass and a black dress that I will never wear again.
I walk back to the theater slowly, ever so slowly, and try to take a breath without shuddering. The clacking of my heels on the pavement reassures me of my progress but truth be told, I'm not really paying attention to where I'm going.
I get to the theater. The play is still going on. I stand outside for a few moments, trying not to think of him leaving only a few hours before. My matching purse is vibrating but I ignore it, walking back and forth in front of the promotional posters hoping my internal body temperature will go up a few degrees with the exercise. Instead, my dress just drags on the ground, yet another weight that makes my neck protest with pain.
A taxi pulls up and I get in. I send him to the hotel and extract a few bills from my still vibrating purse for the fare. I don't look to see who it is but refasten the clasp quietly, laying my head on the back of the seat. With eyes half-closed, the outside is a dark blur with bright lights zig-zagging in colorful patterns until they, too, become darkness.
The overbright lights at the hotel make me squint and I blindly hand the driver his money, fumbling at the door handle. The doorman says nothing but gives a sympathetic look as I enter, trailing my shawl behind me.
I walk to the elevators and push the up button, looking at my distorted reflection in the brass plate. A tall, thin, worn black thing stares back. With a all too chirpy ding, the elevator doors open to let me out and I continue on the safety of my room.
I lay the shawl on the bed and slip off my shoes. Ever so gently I slide the straps from my shoulders, and the dress begins to fall. I step out of it with care and clutching it like a talisman, I walk to the closet. I pull out a fabric encased hanger and ease the dress slowly onto it, watching as it slowly swings into form, hanging lifelessly. Solemnly, I rehang the dress in the closet, knowing full well that while I won't touch it out of anything but necessity, that I will keep it for the rest of my life.