Lie to Me
She curls up, nearly into fetal position. Her knees aren't close enough to her stomach. He puts a hand on the mattress next to her back. He knows she doesn't want to be touched right now. He wants to say something, but only "CJ," comes out.
She pulls her knees up to her chest. He retreats his hand.
He wants to touch her. He wants to erase the word "relieved" from the English language. He doesn't expect to hear sobbing or even a single sniffle from her. Still, he wishes he did; she needed that kind of release instead of just knocking on his door at one in the morning, undressing without a word, ordering him out of his clothes with a look.
"Just don't bring it up," she says. He wants to obey, to respect what she wants, but what's the use if it's on both their minds?
No use, he decides. "I want to at least say something." And he waits for her approval because if he goes on without it, she might get up and leave. He won't risk it. He's a little selfish.
"Then say it's fixable. Tell me it'll be okay. Say we'll pick up points and win next year."
He breathes in and out, listens. One breath of his for two of hers. She's more upset than her voice lets on. Still, he tells the truth. "I don't think I can. We can try, but no one can promise."
And it grieves him to say it, because he wants it just as much as she does. He wants to win the next election, he wants the approval ratings to go up. He wants to see her happy in her job again, lively again. He wants to stop getting memos from the DNC that ask if it isn't about time he fired that fool of a Press Secretary.
She fidgets, lets go of one knee and then grabs it again. She's hardly more relaxed and extremely serious when she says, "Then lie."
She curls up, nearly into fetal position. Her knees aren't close enough to her stomach. He puts a hand on the mattress next to her back. He knows she doesn't want to be touched right now. He wants to say something, but only "CJ," comes out.
She pulls her knees up to her chest. He retreats his hand.
He wants to touch her. He wants to erase the word "relieved" from the English language. He doesn't expect to hear sobbing or even a single sniffle from her. Still, he wishes he did; she needed that kind of release instead of just knocking on his door at one in the morning, undressing without a word, ordering him out of his clothes with a look.
"Just don't bring it up," she says. He wants to obey, to respect what she wants, but what's the use if it's on both their minds?
No use, he decides. "I want to at least say something." And he waits for her approval because if he goes on without it, she might get up and leave. He won't risk it. He's a little selfish.
"Then say it's fixable. Tell me it'll be okay. Say we'll pick up points and win next year."
He breathes in and out, listens. One breath of his for two of hers. She's more upset than her voice lets on. Still, he tells the truth. "I don't think I can. We can try, but no one can promise."
And it grieves him to say it, because he wants it just as much as she does. He wants to win the next election, he wants the approval ratings to go up. He wants to see her happy in her job again, lively again. He wants to stop getting memos from the DNC that ask if it isn't about time he fired that fool of a Press Secretary.
She fidgets, lets go of one knee and then grabs it again. She's hardly more relaxed and extremely serious when she says, "Then lie."
