She lies on the couch with a bottle of water on the coffee table in front of her. A trash can sits next to her. She lies there in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. When someone begins knocking on the door she groans, hoping that they will go away. She feels tired, and weak, and unwilling to go to the door. The knocking doesn't dissipate. She sighs.
"Who is it?" She calls out, shifting into a sitting position, reaching for the weapon lying on her coffee table.
"It's me," he replies.
"Go away," she tells him.
"Not until you open the door," he argues.
"It's open," she responds.
He twists the knob, and enters the apartment. He holds a brown paper bag. She furrows her brow.
"What did you bring?"
"You won't answer my phone calls," he tells her.
"That's a pretty big bag."
"I didn't know what was wrong with you, so I brought one of everything."
"What did you bring?"
"Cold medicine, cough drops. I made you some chicken soup. I brought some Gatorade, and some Vick's vapor rub. I wanted to cover my basis. Of course if you have Ebola, I am totally unprepared."
"I don't think its Ebola."
"Do you want some soup?"
She shakes her head, "No."
"Have you eaten anything today?"
"No."
He heads into the kitchen, and unloads his bag. He lifts the soup of the bag, and opens the cabinet for a bowl.
"Put it in the fridge," she instructs him.
"You have to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
He rolls his eyes, and puts the soup away. He grabs a bottle of Gatorade, and carries it into her. He places it on the coffee table in front of her.
"What's wrong with you?" He asks, taking a seat next to her on the couch.
She shrugs, and grins half-heartedly, "Ebola, probably."
"Are you contagious?"
"I don't think so."
"I don't see any tissues."
"It's not respiratory," she confirms.
"So what is it?"
"Food poisoning."
"Are you sure?"
"Fairly certain," she confirms.
"Do you need anything?"
"Nope."
"Are you going to be at work tomorrow?"
"That's the plan."
He looks at her questioningly. She looks pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She looks as if she hasn't slept in a few days. He furrows his brow, and hates to ask, but it slips out before he can stop it.
"Have you been drinking?"
The vein in her forehead pulsates, "You think that I'm hung-over?"
"I think that it's a fair question."
"It's really unfair," she argues.
"You've obviously been throwing up," he points out.
"It's food poisoning," she argues.
"I want to believe you."
She shakes her head, "No you don't. All you can see is…"
He cuts her off, "A marine sitting at a bar with a glass of whiskey."
"I haven't been drinking. Don't you think that you would know if I had?"
He shrugs, "I don't know. You're so damn good at hiding things."
"Go to hell."
"Mac," he tries to reason with her.
"Go," she points to the door.
"Mac…"
She shoves him off the couch. He rises to his feet, and turns to leave. She watches the door slam as he exits the apartment. She rubs her temples. For a moment she feels guilty for lying to him. She vacates her seat on the couch. She crosses the room to the door. She bolts, and chains the door. She turns, and leans against the door. The tears begin to fall before she lowers herself to the floor. She lowers herself to the floor, and draws her knees to her chest.
He sits at the island in his apartment. He stares at the window, and wonders where it all went wrong. His gut tells him that she's lying to him. He wants to believe her, but he can't. He sees her sinking, and he doesn't know how to help him. As per usual she pushes him away when she needs help. He asks himself if it was worth it.
He concludes that one night together wasn't worth throwing away everything else. He chides himself for allowing such a mistake to happen. Instead of bringing them closer, that night continues to push them further apart. He doesn't know how to drive away the wedge that is stuck between them. He thinks about his discussion with the admiral earlier in the day. He tries to figure out what he can do to repair his relationship with Mac. He wonders if he's pushed her too far this time.
She takes a deep breath in, as she tosses her laundry into the dryer. She stands in the laundry room tosses clothes into the dyer. She listens to the dryer as it spends around, and around. The sense of nausea hangs around as she empties the contents of the dryer into a laundry basket. She carries the laundry back to her apartment. She empties the contents of the basket onto the couch. She folds the clean clothes in silence. She ignores the phone when it rings. She ignores the answer that he leaves on the answering machine. She wonders how long it will take him to realize that this can't work, no matter how much either of them want it to.
She puts her laundry away once it's folded. She grabs a clean pair of pajamas, and makes a beeline for the bathroom. She turns on the shower head, and climbs inside. She's too worn out to dry her hair. She dries off with a fluffy white towel, and proceeds to pull on clean pajamas. She tosses her dirty clothes in the laundry hamper, and climbs into her bed. She flips off the lamp that sits on her bedside table, despite the early hour. She situates herself under the covers, and closes her eyes, hoping that sleep will find her sooner, rather than later.