I had been fired. It wasn't for the reason I though; no, Arthur Branch is too smart to admit that. While I don't believe him, I hold no hard feelings either. It's time for me to move on, time to leave New York and explore an outside world.
I step into my new apartment for the first time, bags hanging from my shoulders each one threatening to fall to the ground at a moment's notice. I let them fall near the door and walk around the small living room, exploring the place I am now forced to call home. Immediately I can see things I will change about the place, where I will put the furniture, what color and kinds of drapes will cover the windows.
I walk over to one of these windows, over looking the alley way between my building and the one next door. Not a nice view. That is until I look up from the dumpster on the damp concrete. One floor below mine, but just across the way is a woman I swear I've seen before. I can't place her, but her long graceful strides keep my eyes on her until she is blocked from my view by a wall. I shake my head and go back to moving in.
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A week later, I have everything in its place. Now I am only waiting on the ivory colored lace curtains which, I am told, have been back ordered. With a glass of wine in hand, I sit in a comfortable chair that I have placed near the empty looking window. I love the feeling of fresh air on my face as the afternoon falls into the night. It has always been one of the more relaxing times.
My eyes scan the room, everything is in its proper place, but something seems to be missing. I glace out the window, no use in staring at something I feel is empty. The blonde woman I had seen in her apartment a week ago is back. She is folding clothes, placing them in a neat pile on her sofa. After a moment, she wonders off, leaving the task half finished. A wind picks up and carries a piece of cloth off of the pile and out her window. The scarf floats on the wind, ruffling as little gusts of air play with its different edges until its purple shimmer falls to the concrete below. Now I have something to do.
I stand up and leave my apartment after locking the door. If all goes well, I won't be home for another hour. I walk down to the damp alleyway that separates the two buildings, find the scarf and carry it into the building next to mine. As a lady and three children leave the building, I slip in to avoid having to page the person with the best sounding name to let in a complete stranger.
She lives on the seventh floor, just one below me. Once I get off the elevator, I realize that I have to play my cards right or knock on the wrong door. My first try reveals a seventy-year-old man who looks as if he hasn't seen the light of day since he was fifty. Putting on my best smile, I ask him where the blonde woman lives. He jabs his thumb to the right and slams the door in my face. Apparently I didn't choose the friendliest neighborhood.
My second try is a success. She opens the door, one hand occupied by a glass of water—half full. Her hair is down, finishing in a splendid cascade around her shoulders which are bare due to an off the shoulder lavender sweater. She smiles. "Hello. May I help you?" The voice is calm and smooth. Had it been a tangible object, I would picture a soft malleable clay, the kind one covers her hands with when she's bored.
I look up and meet her eyes. "Is this yours?"
"Why yes! Thank you!"
"I saw it get caught in the wind and decided to return it to its beautiful owner." She laughs. The sound is cool and clear. A smile touches my lips and turns into a small giggle.
"Come in, come in. Are you the one who just moved in across the way?" I nod. "I saw the moving van, but I don't ever remember seeing you at the corner market." A sound explanation. "I was just folding the wash, make yourself at home and I'll be with you in a minute."
She grabs the basket and pile of clothing and walks into a neighboring room. She walks back in and grabs the glass of water that she had placed on the table before leaving. She takes a small sip, not enough to notice the change of the water level, but enough to coat her lips in a small sheen of gloss. Now is as good a chance as ever, I tell myself.
I don't remember her name, and I can't tell if she remembers mine, but in that moment it doesn't matter. I quickly crossed the space that separates us and lock her lips in with mine. I feel a fire that I hadn't remembered since my college days. I'm not known to kiss people I've just met, if they seem familiar or not. The glass of water must have dropped because I feel both of her hands running though my hair as I drag her waist toward mine.
She pushes against me and I fall to the couch, our mouths still interlocked. Her hands are working on the buttons of my blouse. I moan as she gives up and just brushes her hands across my stomach. The tension is building and she begins working on my top again, button after button blocking her path. I grab the bottom of her sweater and remove it, revealing her smooth creamy skin—stopping her unbuttoning process.
She sits up, letting me witness her beauty more fully. She again attacks my top, hoping that she can finally glimpse what lies beneath. Finally there are no more buttons, each one not so carefully taken out of her way. She pushes off what remains of my shirt and I begin the quick process of removing her bra. It unclasps in a moment and she hangs free above me. She removes mine, sliding the black straps off my shoulders and down my arms. Our mouths connect again, making our breasts collide. And at that moment, I remember who she is.
I pull away, my arms still around her back, but my eyes focused on hers. She stares at me, slightly upset that I've stopped. "Alex? Alex Cabot!"
She violently rips herself from my arms and stiffly walks across the room. As she nears the door to what I surmise is her bedroom she tells me to leave, her voice full of anger. And then she disappears behind the deep purple curtains that cover the doorway. They flutter in the breeze of her still open window.
I return to my apartment, confused and distressed. What had I done to upset her so? Peering through the window I can see that she is on the phone, her sweater back in place. She is seething, almost yelling at the person she is talking to. Their conversation grows louder and I can hear snippets. "No! I don't want to move again… I didn't say—" Finally she slams the phone back down on the receiver, falls onto the couch and begins to cry. I never intended to hurt her.
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I can't stand it anymore. It is dark now, and I can still see the lights on in her kitchen. She didn't leave the house for the rest of the day. She received two phone calls, each one ending in her screaming.
Not fully understanding what I did wrong by remembering her, I decided to look up her number in the phone book. No Alex Cabot. Not even one Cabot for that matter. But I know it is her. I remember seeing the face in a magazine several years back, her name splayed across the bottom. I don't remember what the article was about, having had a triple murder case that week—one in which Jack and I didn't agree—and no time to read it.
Instead I try a tactic I've only seen once before—in a Shakespeare play. I grabbed some uncooked beans from my pantry and toss them at her now closed living room window. It takes her a few minutes, but eventually she emerges from her kitchen to investigate the sounds from outside. When she sees me, she glares and turns away, but I am persistent. I keep tossing the beans until she opens the window. "Stop it!"
"No! I want to apologize. May I come over?" I can see her hang her head and sigh—she has no good reason that I can see to prevent me from coming over.
"Fine." She closes the window and turns through the purple curtains again.
I grab my keys, lock the door and run down the stairs as all the elevators are in use. I run up to her building and realize that I still don't know which button to push to ask for entrance. But it doesn't matter. She walks to the front door and opens it wide to let me in. We walk to the elevator and arrive at her door in silence. She reenters her kitchen and, by the time she returns with a cup of tea, I have settled on the couch. She stands in the doorway of the kitchen, making me turn my body to look at her.
My mouth opens as if to say something, but I don't know what to say. She says it for me. "I'm not Alex. My name is Emma Swanson."
"Serena Southerlyn." She nods and takes a sip of her tea. Her eyes, while not as dark as before, still pierce mine with striking fervor. "Look Emma, I'm sorry about what I said earlier. It's just that— Well, you remind me of someone I use to be acquainted with back in New York City."
"I've never been to New York. The East Coast seems too fast paced." Now it's my turn to nod. She really does have an uncanny resemblance to the young lawyer who suddenly disappeared years ago. Maybe the sudden change of moving to Seattle was messing with my mind.
Moments pass and seem like hours before I know what to say. "Can we, maybe start over? Be friends?"
She relaxes, lowers her tea and walks over to me. She sits down next to me, smiling. "I'd like that." This time, she puts her mug on the table before things get out of hand. She moves forward, cups my face in both hands and rests her lips on mine. My eyes close and I savor the close feeling of her next to me. She begins to pull away, but I grab her face and pull her back. The passion rises. The kiss is no longer tender and is now a journey of exploration. She shivers as my tongue wonders over her teeth, I melt when her fingers entwine with my hair.
I break my lips from hers and continue my exploration down her neck and behind her ear. Her moans fill my mind and I continue traveling, slowly, around her ear. Her head tips back, a perfect opportunity to introduce my tongue to her throat. She pushes me back this time and pulls off her own sweater. I grasp a breast with one hand, her bra still on, and work my mouth down her chest trying my hardest to leave no skin untouched. My lips burn every time I hit her skin, the sensation rippling through me.
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I wake up the next morning with the sun in my eyes. I am not in my room as my window faces west, not east. I move slowly through a sleep-induced daze only to realize that an arm draped over my waist is preventing my movement. It comes back to me as I turn over in her arms and watch her sleep. She moans as I wake her up with a kiss.
We share a shower and more love-making causes it to be the longest shower I have had in years. We dry off and reclothe ourselves before I ask her a question that has been on my mind since waking up. "Can I see you tonight?"
"Only if we can go to your place after." I nod and smile. She kisses me before closing the door after me. My step must have been lighter, for, as I approach my building, a man whistles at me. I turn to him, and smile making him believe that today is his lucky day though we both know nothing will ever come of it.
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"Jack McCoy."
"Hey Jack."
"Serena! How have you been? Where are you these days?"
"I've moved to Seattle. My parents live in Portland and have been telling me how fantastic it is out here so I finally gave in."
"How is it back there?"
"Calmer than normal city life, but I could get use to it. Jack, I called to ask a favor. Do you remember an Alex Cabot?"
"Um, the name sounds familiar, but I'm not sure I've ever met him."
"Her. Could you look her up? I think she was an ADA."
"Hold on." A minute passes and I can hear computer keys being pushed as he looks through the system. "Uh, yes. She use to work with the Special Victims Unit but she was shot down by Carlos Zapata in 2003. She's dead, Serena."
"Ok, thank you." I hang up the phone, slightly confused by the information he had presented me. So she had died. Alex Cabot couldn't have been the woman living across the alley. It was Emma, not Alex. And yet, that picture, of the blonde woman in the black-rimmed glasses, stayed in my mind.
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Emma and I ate at a local bistro that she loved. I had to agree with her, the food was excellent, but the desert back at my place was even better. We fell from the climax together and now, I am lying with her, our limbs still tangled together. I run my finger down her nose. "Emma?"
"Hmm?" She smiles as she snuggles into my arms, her eyes closed.
"Tell me about your past."
"Well, I was born and raised in San Francisco and moved up to Washington to attend college in Walla Walla. Since graduating, I've lived in various parts of the state. Seattle has been my favorite city so far." She says as she kisses my shoulder.
"What did you major in?"
"Philosophy."
"And you work…?"
"For an insurance company."
"Sounds like fun."
"Not as much as my old one."
"What was your old job?"
"I was—" And there it is. A beat in her life history. "—an interior decorator."
"Really? Would you like to improve my place some time?"
"I didn't see anything needing improvement when we got back."
"You haven't seen anything since we got back."
She laughs. "Oh yeah." I kiss her on the head and let her fall asleep in my arms.
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Weeks have passed and we have grown tighter. We meet for lunch as often as possible, most times at the bistro, but other times closer to her office. Every Friday night we have a standing date at seven sharp. This time is our chance to relax. Some times we see a new film, others we go out dancing.
We are very trusting of each other. Two days ago, I gave her a key to my place and she promptly closed my hand around a key to hers as she kissed me. Apparently she had made it a week before and had kept forgetting to hand it over. Three times I have had to run off to work, leaving her under the covers of my bed, warm and beautiful.
Today we are meeting at an Italian restaurant that a coworker recommended to me. I am seated, waiting for her to arrive from work and it dawns on me—I rarely talk about myself. I know so much about her and yet she never asks about my past. I look up over the single lit candle as her form, clad in a low cut black dress, slides into the chair across from me.
"Feeling alright?" I nod.
"Emma, what do I do for a living?"
"You're a lawyer, aren't you?"
"I've never told you that." Her eyes widen for a moment, fear ripping though them but she controls it quickly and takes a lengthy sip of wine before responding.
"Well I must have seen your business card or something."
"I don't have business cards." Her mouth opens, then closes. The fear is back. "Calm down. I'm not accusing you of snooping." She looks down at her hands and begins breathing hard. "Emma, are you ok?" Her breaths become more rapid and now fear is apparent on my face. I stand up and run over to her, pulling her from the chair, a knife falls to the floor, clattering on the wood finish.
I half drag, half carry her outside, ignoring the waiters who keep offering help. Once we are in the air, she seems to quiet down, but she won't show me her face. I wave the hostess off, sure that I can take care of the problem myself. She gives us a worried glace, but heads back to her place.
"Emma, Emma, Emma." I hug her. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." I rock her in my arms for a minute then pull back. Her hands are covering her face, which is down. "Emma, look at me. Please?" With some help, she lowers her hands and I can see pain in her eyes.
"Can we go home?"
"Sure." Hailing a cab, I replace my arm around her shoulder and keep her cloaked with my body until we arrive back in her apartment. She pulls away from me and puts the kettle on for tea. She always has tea when she is upset so now is the perfect opportunity.
I sit at a bar stool on the island in her kitchen, waiting for her to break the silence. She doesn't move from in front of the stove. "Serena, I haven't been completely truthful with you." She stops there, either expecting me to know the rest or unable to finish.
"Emma, it's ok, you don't have to say anything." I stand up and walk over to her, placing my arm around her shoulder again. She is leaning over the stove, one hand on either side to support her weight. Slowly, tear by tear, wet drops fall from her face onto the white metal. "I trust you, you've never done anything to betray me so the fact that you admit you're hiding something is heart warming."
"No Serena, the damage has been done." She turns into me and sobs. "I've known who you are for years, but I didn't connect the name to the face until you mentioned Alex Cabot."
Again, she stopped. I pull her over to a bar stool, make her sit and return to the stove where I set the whistling pot at ease and pour the boiling water into her already prepared mug. I set it on the counter in front of her as I sit next down. She absent-mindedly takes a sip and gasps as it burns her tongue. "Want me to kiss it and make it better for you?" Through her sadness, she smiles, but doesn't reply. Instead, she looks down at some invisible dot underneath the counter.
"I love you, Serena." There's a smile on her lips and her voice is warm yet sad all at the same time. She turns quickly and kisses me with a tenderness that I have never felt. "You should go. By morning I'll be gone." She stands up and walks out of the kitchen.
"Emma! Where are you going?" But the pieces are falling into place. I no longer want to believe that I am right—not if it means she has to leave. I run out after her and catch a glimpse of her as she passes through the purple curtains to a room where we've shared so much joy and passion. As I pass through them after her, I can already feel that those same feelings will never happen again.
"Emma, what do you mean you'll be gone?" She has a suitcase open on the bed and is already packing clothes into it.
"Don't you get it? I'm not Emma Swanson. I didn't grow up in San Francisco. I've never even been to Walla Walla, let alone graduated from Whitman College. I've never been an interior designer and I hate philosophy." Her speech worked her up and she is crying again.
"Than who are you?" I say it as calmly as I can. The revelations that not only does Emma Swanson not know me, but that she both loves me and doesn't exist are too much for me to handle all at once.
She screams and throws a pillow at me. I duck, but the corner hits my head before it is stopped by the closet door behind me and falls to the ground. "You've figured it out! I'm Alex Cabot! Zapata ordered a hit on me and I died that night. It was in the papers and on the TV. I was ripped from my life, one where I was settled and had made friends. I had even found someone I loved but now it's dead! And this is too!" Her rant is over, her energy to fight gone. She collapses on the floor, her head and upper body held up by the edge of her bed. Her shoulders heave and I can hear her choke on her tears.
It takes several moments for all of that to sink in, but I am finally coherent enough to walk around the bed to her side. I sit down next to her and place a hand on her back. She shrugs it off, but I am persistent. This time she lets it stay. I can feel the muscles in her back twitch, as though they are trying to grasp my hand and pull me in tighter. Before I can do anything, she turns and pulls me to her. She kisses me hard and now I begin to cry too.
She can't stay in Seattle. Her cover is blown, it had been for several weeks, but she was able to make me believe that she was Emma Swanson. We both know this will be our last night together and so we make the most of it. Neither of us sleep, our desire to love the other as much as possible in such short a time taking precedence.
The next morning, a moving van arrives. She watches the buff men move her life from the apartment and into the truck. She is drinking tea. As I watch from the window, a man in a dark business suit and dark glasses approaches her. If I hadn't blown her cover, I'm sure it was this guy who did. They talk and she shakes her head sadly. He turns to leave, but she calls after him and then looks up at my window, making eye contact with me and waving me down.
Again, I grab my keys, lock the door and make my way to the front of her building. "Serena, this is Agent Cooper. He's been working with me for the past year." We shake hands, but neither of us says a word. He tips his head and walks off before the silence can become awkward. "Well, I know where my next home is going to be and my new name. I get to read about my past while driving there." I look at her, my eyes pleading for her to tell me what she knows about her new life though we both know I would never verbalize it and she would never answer.
"Emma, be safe." I can't call her Alex. Something about our quick romance keeps me from seeing her as a former defense attorney from my hometown. Her eyes are drawn and sad, our lack of sleep not helping the problem.
"All done Miss!" Calls one of the workers as he checks us out. Her eyes briefly fly over to him as his partner pulls down the door on the back of the van. She kisses me hard and as we break I can hear both men howling at us. I begin to cry, a knot in my throat prevents me from telling her goodbye and that I love her too as she gets into Agent Cooper's car and closes the door.
She rolls down the window of the SUV, wraps a hand around the back of my head and pulls me forward, kissing the tears off my face. "I think you need this more than I do." She hands me the warm mug of tea—still half full. As the car pulls away with the moving van following closely behind, my throat begins to work again. Quietly and in a severally breaking voice, I say my goodbye. "I love you too, Alex."