Chapter 2

It being my first Saturday off in eleven weeks, I decide I'm going to sleep in late. I've decided that people ranging in age from thirteen to twenty-three are much smarter than usually given credit. Sleeping in is something they do on a regular basis, which is pure genius. To be honest, I'm not sure what the rest of us are thinking. In preparation for this glorious event, I stay up late cleaning my apartment Friday night so I don't have housework to do on what I've termed "Donna Day." I do a few loads of laundry, vacuum, mop, the whole nine yards. Then, I put extra pillows and sateen sheets on my bed and check three times to make sure I've turned off the alarm. Then, just to be safe, I turn the ringer off on my home phone and leave Josh a message that any call to my cell needs to be accompanied by heavy bleeding or a work emergency and then reiterate that wondering where his spare tie is does not constitute a work emergency, then I crawl into bed and sink into the pillows, where I quickly fall into a comatose type sleep.

The next morning I wake up around nine o'clock and lie in bed reading from one of the greatest novels ever written, Rebecca. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend it. I had to do a report on it my junior year of high school, and being 'one of those students,' I watched the movie instead of reading the book. Several years later I found my copy when I moved from my parents' house to FreeRide's dump apartment and read it not long after when I was sick with the flu. Germ-ridden piece of crap apartment. Sorry, I digress… I've read it countless times since. There was a sequel called Mrs. DeWinter, written a few decades later by a different author. Don't bother with it; it's far less than amazing.

So anyway, I finally drag my ass out of bed at around 10:30. 10:30, people. This is a concept I can hardly grasp. When I do get up, I pad my way into my kitchen in my gym socks, flannel pajama bottoms and tank top, because let's face it, flannel pajamas are wonderful, but those tops just get all twisted around your body and end up choking you half way through the night. Plus, the button holes are always too big and you end up half naked by morning. Sorry, there I go again...

So I pad my way into the kitchen where I have a not so wonderful breakfast of fat free cottage cheese and two scrambled egg whites with no butter or salt. Clearly, this is the worst part of my morning.

I, however, don't allow this to get me down. Instead, I crawl back into bed and turn on the television. It's Saturday morning, which means nothing is on. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nothing. This, of course, doesn't stop me from flipping through my 8 channels over and over for more than a half hour. Something catches my eye on public television and I become fascinated by a documentary on John Dillinger, a thief and murderer in the twenties and thirties who was brilliant enough to escape from jail using a gun he carved out of wood but was stupid enough to date a woman who led the feds to him so she wouldn't get deported. This leads me to two questions. Why in the hell was he given a pocket knife in jail, and why are men so easily distracted by beautiful women? I am, of course, referencing Josh's recent… whatever… with the NASA whore.

It's just after the lady in red gets Dillinger killed in ?xml:namespace prefix st1 ns "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" / Chicago when someone knocks on my door. I quickly snap my head in that direction and listen quietly looking for some clue as to who it is, as though I don't know.

"Donna!" Yep, that's what I thought.

So, you know about the car argument yesterday during my lunch FreeCell break, right? Well, it continued throughout the day, ending at 10:30 last night when he told me we were going car shopping today. I reminded him that I had no intentions of trading in The Beast, but he just smiled and yelled out, "I'll see you tomorrow," as I left the office. I guess he was serious about that.

In my infinite wisdom, my brain being deprived of oxygen or some such crap due to malnutrition and starvation, I decide to pretend I'm not here, staying still and silent on my bed. He hasn't called my cell, which means it's not an emergency and this is Donna Day. I'll be damned if he's going to ruin it. If he's not going to sleep with me, he needs to leave me alone. I have big plans today. I'm going to sugar scrub, scrape dead skin off my heels, maybe put in a dvd… it's a big day.

My cell phone rings then, and I grit my teeth and say words I really shouldn't write down for you fine people to read. I stare at it while it rings a few more times, but I have to answer it, it's part of working at the White House. Finally I groan and pick it up off the nightstand. Yep, it's him.

"Joshua…"

"Donnatella, it's time!" Oh, he's in far too happy a mood.

"Donna's not home. I'll tell her you stopped by."

He chuckles at me. Bastard. "Your piece of shit car's out front."

And I thought it was a good thing that I got a close spot last night. Damn it. "Don't say mean things about The Beast. She can hear you. Anyway, I'm not here. I walked down to the market. I'll be home in two hours."

He laughs. "Really? Two hours, huh? How do you plan on getting two hours worth of shopping home?"

Shit. "I'm going to… steal the cart from the store and push it home."

"Well, that will be something to see. I'll just wait here."

"For two hours? I might… take a walk in the park before I come home." This is so not working.

He laughs. "That's ok; I'll just let myself in with my key and watch TV."

"No!" I scream.

"Donnatella…"

"But… it's Donna Day," I whine.

"Donna Day?" I can actually hear the smirk.

"I hate you."

"I'm coming in."

"I could have a man in here. Naked and… oily." Oily?

"Oily?"

"It's… edible oil and… I just put it on him and I'm…gonna…" I can't even say it.

"Well, that does sound fun, but something tells me you're lying."

"Men find me attractive, Josh. A man would be lucky to have oil licked from his body by me!"

He's quiet after that, but I can hear him breathing heavy. It makes me wonder if he's envisioning the same thing I am. I close my eyes. It's quite the picture.

I snap myself out of it after several seconds. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought you had a meeting on the hill this morning."

"It's five after one."

"So… the meeting's over?"

"It is indeed. Let me in."

"But…" I whine. "It's Donna Day."

"You work at the White House. You don't get Donna Day for another three years. Let me in. We have plans this afternoon."

Once again I feign innocence. "We do?"

"Nice try. Are you going to let me in or are we going to talk on the phone all day?"

"I have a choice?"

"Let me in."

He can't see me, but I feel the need to cross my arms over my chest and stick my bottom lip out anyway. "You have a key, let yourself in."

I hang up and lie down, pulling the covers up over my head, hoping he'll give up and leave when he doesn't find me. I, of course, know this idea is preposterous, but he's gonna be mean about The Beast. Now I'm whining in my head. I'm pathetic.

About two minutes later I feel the bed shift. He's found me. "Get your scrawny ass up," he says quietly.

"But…"

"I don't give a shit about Donna Day."

I sit up. "But I was gonna sugar scrub and scrape my feet and paint my toenails." As I say this, I throw the covers back and hold my right foot in the air towards his face. He glances at my chest in the tank top I've got on, but at least I don't have that flannel pajama top on with the holes too big for the buttons.

I wiggle my foot and he takes a hold of it and looks it over. "Your foot's fine. Where's your oily beef hunk?"

"Beef hunk?"

"Whatever."

"He snuck out the back window when you let yourself in."

"Wuss, I could've taken him."

"He's very well built Josh."

"Sure he is."

"Hey, he's my make-believe guy. He can be built if I want him to be."

"Uh huh. Get up."

"I have to shower."

"You get ten minutes." I stick my tongue out at him and crawl out of bed.

"Or what?"

"I'm coming in after you." Well, now I have to take longer than ten minutes.

"Pervert."

He wiggles his eyes at me. "Go."