YOU WISH

AUTHORS NOTE: Hey bitches, I'm baaaack. That's right. Love it. After a long absence, here's an update to this story/one-shot-a-thon. Joanne, for your viewing pleasure. Also, for this story I'm trying to use a different style eachtime, but I'm running out of ideas. Plus, I'm going to try to write Roger soon, and I'm worried about that. The rest are going to be hard, because Collins, Mark, and Roger our out to kill me. But off that soapbox. Enjoy.

You wish... You shake your head, pulling the band out of your hair and letting it fall before rolling your shoulders back with a sigh.

You are sitting cross-legged on a old rusty fountain, pulling coins out of your pocket and rolling them around in your palm. You consider this a very unlawyer-like position, spenders falling down over your elbows and pant legs rolled up to above your knees, untucked and barefoot. You considered putting your legs into the water, just to see what it feels like, but you decided it'd be too cold. The water probably holds every time of sickness that has worked it's way into Central Park.

You flip over Abraham Lincoln your palm and stare down at him. The man who brought this country through the Civil War and the man who died in a old opera house booth, ironically by a man who's last name is Booth. But now, he was just a name, just a man molded into copper and pressed into a chapter in a History book. A legacy saved in metal.

You pluck the penny from your palm and let it slowly fall into the fountain, hearing the light kur-plunck as the coin hits the water opposed to sitting it.

You wish you could be remembered. But something better then metal, something more significant. What, you don't know.

Your fingers sort over the rest of the coins, picking out the next one and shifting to it's face.

A quarter. George Washington. Founder of our country and General of the Revolutionary war. A glorified man, nonetheless, probably not as true and honorable as you'd like to make him out to be. But he made a difference. He set the stone. He changed lives.

You pull it from your palm and press it in your right before tossing it over your shoulder.

You wish you could make a difference.

You look down at the remaining coins, gently moving the rest aside, picking up a nickel and holding it to the light momentarily.

Thomas Jefferson. Freckled and sandy-haired, tall and awkward. Eloquent. Drafted the very words the country lived by. They say he wasn't a public speaker though, and lived behind his pen for words.

With a smirk, you toss the coin over your shoulder, feeling your face melt into a grin as you hear fall.

You wish you could have power despite weakness.

Two coins remain. Another quarter and a dime run smoothly into your fingers as you tilt your hand down, swiping them up to the light.

You grin, pocketing the quarter, holding the remaining coin, the dime, between your index and middle finger. Roosevelt. It is time for the truth to be spoken, frankly and boldly. You twist the metal through your fingers. Pearl Harbor. World War II. Surely he meant more then a ten cent piece, tossed around from pocket to pocket and dumped into fountains. Surely he changed the world enough to mean a bit more to people then a name that had to memorize, along with dates, math problems, and vocabulary. Tentatively, you bring your hand over your shoulder, preparing yourself to let it go.

You wish... You wish... You wish you weren't so crazy.

Your fingers tremble and you shove your hands back into your pocket, letting the coin drop and hearing the distant clank of it against the quarter, as if the whole entire park has been stunned silent and the only thing you can hear is yourself.

You're crazy. That's what you are. Damn crazy. Making wishes on coins and sitting here, watching New York socialite walk their dogs while people are dying. People like Angel. Like Mimi and Roger and you're sitting here wishing.

Being without Maureen is making you crazy. You're believing in things she ought to believe. Things you oughtn't, like... wishes and miracle and such insanity. Angel's death has made you crazy and killed your logic. What we're you thinking?

You run a hand over your hair and sigh, rolling down your pants legs and pulling up your suspenders. You retrieve your shoes and tie them with renewed vigor, tucking in your shirt and pulling back your hair into a neat satisfied bun, delicately placing your hands into your pockets.

You pick up the dime, Roosevelt, and pop him into the water.

You wish wishes really do come true.