Okay, this is part of a series within a series. The whole thing is based on different stanzas, in consecutive order, from the song "Picture", by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow, and is titled Whiskey and Wine. They go as follows: A Slow Sort of Hell; Both of Them, Empty; Sawijika; Of Dreams and Fairy Tales; Life, Like This; and Whiskey and Wine. For ones other than are posted here, ask [1]lizaausten@tri-countynet.net. This little series within the series is a set of three West Wing stories, all that could be read independently but might be a little confusing if you decide to do just that.
Of Dreams and Fairy Tales
-I put your picture away
wonder where you've been
I can't look at you
While I'm lying next to him.
I put your picture away
Wonder where you've been
I can't look at you
While I'm lying next to him.
For being impeccably educated and an excellent writer, she thought rather bitterly, he certainly wasn't very observant.
She had watched him watching her, fingers gliding over smooth skin while he thought she was asleep. And she had watched him as he deliberated, eyes fixated at clothing on the floor and she knew he thought of Andi, his wife, and her picture. Guilt plagued him and she knew it because she knew him.
But it would not be enough.
And she had watched him as he slept, fingers hesitantly poised near his hair, his hand, his heart, but never quite giving in, never quite touching.
She would not sleep that night, because she was afraid she'd miss his face, his expression, his emotions, or his words. Yet, she knew he would not smile, would not cry, wound not whisper things she longed to hear.
She would not sleep that night, because she loved him, and for the first time, she understood what the words meant when they said that it was not enough. And the guilt nipped at her heels even as she watched him, sleeping untroubled and unmarred, and her memory held fast to the feel of his fingers and the taste of his skin, and she would say her Hail Mary's before breakfast.
No, she would not sleep because she would dream, and she would dream of him, and somehow the dream never quite matched the reality. And before he walked out the door, she'd allow herself to sleep, dream, and remember, and she would not miss him when he was gone.
---
When she was a child, she read fairy tales and dreamt of her Prince Charming, clean-shaven, dark-haired, tall. He would be a devout Catholic and they would have beautiful children and a beautiful white house, and that would be her ending - her happily ever after that never was.
Her mother died when she was eleven, and she told her father not to read her those same fairy tales, same stories, same lies. She was a big girl, then, and she did not need to be coddled, tucked in, or read to, and she never opened Cinderella again.
She met Toby when she was seventeen, fresh out of high school and working as a volunteer on Senator Richardson's campaign, and he was rude and contemptuous, and all her Prince Charming would not have been. And yet, he smiled and he laughed, and she joined in because his mood was infectious and his charm reeled her in, and soon he was her best friend.
Never more, never more.
And he was Jewish and losing his hair as quickly as his faith, and his marriage was failing and he drank too much as a consolation prize, but there was no doubt in her mind that one day, one day, he would succeed instead of fail and he'd find himself in the White House.
It was not the fairy tale she imagined.
---
It was not the fairy tale she imagined, but it would do, and she did not sleep until after he'd left her again, and she cried until nothing was left. Sometime in the night, she'd whispered, "I love you," and finally she knew that the happily ever after wasn't for her to have, but it was enough, because fairy tales were for dreamers and fate had dealt her a different kind of hand.
And she would sleep, because when she woke up, he would not be there, but she was not a dreamer, and she expected as much.
Prince Charming and his castle would wait another day, but Toby's White House...it would not. He would make it.
And that was her dream.
References
1. mailto:lizaausten@tri-countynet.net
Of Dreams and Fairy Tales
-I put your picture away
wonder where you've been
I can't look at you
While I'm lying next to him.
I put your picture away
Wonder where you've been
I can't look at you
While I'm lying next to him.
For being impeccably educated and an excellent writer, she thought rather bitterly, he certainly wasn't very observant.
She had watched him watching her, fingers gliding over smooth skin while he thought she was asleep. And she had watched him as he deliberated, eyes fixated at clothing on the floor and she knew he thought of Andi, his wife, and her picture. Guilt plagued him and she knew it because she knew him.
But it would not be enough.
And she had watched him as he slept, fingers hesitantly poised near his hair, his hand, his heart, but never quite giving in, never quite touching.
She would not sleep that night, because she was afraid she'd miss his face, his expression, his emotions, or his words. Yet, she knew he would not smile, would not cry, wound not whisper things she longed to hear.
She would not sleep that night, because she loved him, and for the first time, she understood what the words meant when they said that it was not enough. And the guilt nipped at her heels even as she watched him, sleeping untroubled and unmarred, and her memory held fast to the feel of his fingers and the taste of his skin, and she would say her Hail Mary's before breakfast.
No, she would not sleep because she would dream, and she would dream of him, and somehow the dream never quite matched the reality. And before he walked out the door, she'd allow herself to sleep, dream, and remember, and she would not miss him when he was gone.
---
When she was a child, she read fairy tales and dreamt of her Prince Charming, clean-shaven, dark-haired, tall. He would be a devout Catholic and they would have beautiful children and a beautiful white house, and that would be her ending - her happily ever after that never was.
Her mother died when she was eleven, and she told her father not to read her those same fairy tales, same stories, same lies. She was a big girl, then, and she did not need to be coddled, tucked in, or read to, and she never opened Cinderella again.
She met Toby when she was seventeen, fresh out of high school and working as a volunteer on Senator Richardson's campaign, and he was rude and contemptuous, and all her Prince Charming would not have been. And yet, he smiled and he laughed, and she joined in because his mood was infectious and his charm reeled her in, and soon he was her best friend.
Never more, never more.
And he was Jewish and losing his hair as quickly as his faith, and his marriage was failing and he drank too much as a consolation prize, but there was no doubt in her mind that one day, one day, he would succeed instead of fail and he'd find himself in the White House.
It was not the fairy tale she imagined.
---
It was not the fairy tale she imagined, but it would do, and she did not sleep until after he'd left her again, and she cried until nothing was left. Sometime in the night, she'd whispered, "I love you," and finally she knew that the happily ever after wasn't for her to have, but it was enough, because fairy tales were for dreamers and fate had dealt her a different kind of hand.
And she would sleep, because when she woke up, he would not be there, but she was not a dreamer, and she expected as much.
Prince Charming and his castle would wait another day, but Toby's White House...it would not. He would make it.
And that was her dream.
References
1. mailto:lizaausten@tri-countynet.net