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And Sore Must Be The Storm
Violet
"It's really pissing rain," she said.
He looked around. Water sank into the soil. Water battered petals of flowers and wicker baskets and nylon ribbons. Water spilled out of the sky and splashed off white marble, bursting into small delirious droplets.
"That's one way to put it," he replied.
She moved to sit down beside him, then looked at the puddle forming on the bench and changed her mind. "You're not wearing a coat," she noticed, pulling her own around her.
"Are you just going to sit here and state the obvious all day?"
"Are you just going to sit here and be a putz all day?"
He drummed his fingers on his knee. "It's possible."
She paced a little, wishing she'd worn more sensible shoes as her heels wobbled in the wet grass. "You know what's going to happen now, don't you?"
"Appointment of a special prosecutor," he said with a slight cough. "Seating of a grand jury. Investigation. Paperwork. Every conservative pundit born of woman getting their two cents in. Subpoenas. Paperwork. Long horrible meetings. Chaos. Infighting. Leaks. People quitting, maybe getting fired. Nauseating poll numbers and editorials. Paperwork. Paperwork. More paperwork again."
She blinked and stepped backwards. "I was going to say you'll catch a cold."
He shrugged indifferently. "No reason we can't do both."
"I suppose not." As she pushed a lock of dripping hair off her forehead, it dawned on her that she couldn't really be any more soaked. She sat down on the bench, folding her arms and crossing her legs. "I, on the other hand, am doing my best imitation of a drowned rat."
"You're not made of sugar," he scoffed. "And you're nobody's honey. You won't melt."
She dug her elbow into his arm. "Shut up."
"It's a thing my mother used to say."
"Shut up anyway."
He hooked a finger into the knot of his tie, tugging it away from his throat. "This is not rain on our parade that's happening."
"I know that."
"No. This is not a little rain on our parade. This is... this is a Molotov cocktail on our parade." He lowered his eyes and stared at the mud squelched by his shoes, and the curve of her ankle below the damp, clingy cuff of her slacks. "You have this tendency to think the bad guys are going to come into town on the noon train, and we'll all band together and fight them off--"
"I do not have that tendency," she interrupted.
"Don't you?"
"No, that's Josh." Her wry smile faded into a serious frown. "I'm reading and hearing the same things you are. I have eyes on me that you never have to look at. You have to write about this? I have to talk about this. I am no more an optimist than you."
"It's a trap to fall into."
"I'm not falling into it. And neither are any of us."
He nodded by way of conceding the point. "We'll see."
She noticed him looking at her ankle and knew her eyes would sparkle, so she closed them, tilting her head back and letting the rain pelt her eyelids. "I hate cemeteries," she declared.
"They don't exist for our amusement."
"I know it's not the most original thought in the world. I just..." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I know that we're all going to die. I don't really like facing the evidence. I don't like feeling physically that death is right there."
"Six feet down?" he asked gently, trying to lighten her mood.
"You're not helping."
"No one likes cemeteries."
"I don't like remembering that I have graves I should be visiting," she finished.
He considered this, watching her from the corner of his eye. "Yeah. You can go, you know."
"So can you. You don't have to stay out here until someone comes by on an ark."
"I'm fine," he insisted. To emphasize the point, he took hold of the edge of the bench.
She opened her eyes wide suddenly. "Anyway, they didn't all band together in 'High Noon'."
"What are you talking about?"
"They didn't. It was just Gary Cooper."
He tilted his head and looked straight at her. "You worry me."
"I have a sense of my culture. Gary Cooper went out alone because no one else would go with him."
"I'm not Gary Cooper."
"No," she agreed. "That's a pity, because I'd make an excellent Grace Kelly."
"Are you making a point here?"
"Yes." She pulled her collar up. "My point is, we may be the sheriffs in town but we're not riding off into the sunset."
"That's a terrible point," he told her.
"Leo offered you an out."
He automatically put a hand to the top of his head. "You think I'm thrilled about that?"
"Of course not. But you notice that I didn't, you know, put a stake through Greg Summerhayes' heart or anything."
"Would that really be necessary?"
She chuckled. "Possibly. Or a silver bullet. If I thought for a second he might lure you away, I'd have done some research. I'd have had him stopped."
"If I see cloves of garlic hanging around your door, I'll worry."
"Yeah, worry that I'm trying to make spaghetti sauce on a hot plate." She laid a hand on his knee. "No one's going anywhere, none of us."
He glanced from her hand to her face and back, watching a raindrop travel slowly down between her knuckles. "That may change."
She raised her eyebrows. "No, it won't."
"You're not as used to losing as I am."
"We're adaptable."
"It may become more than some of us are willing to adapt to."
"Not me," she said firmly. "And not you. So I'll watch Josh and you watch Sam, and we have something to fight for, and if we lose, we lose."
"Easy to say that from here," he said.
"It's not easy to say that from anywhere." She pressed her hand gently against his leg. "Not for us."
He hid a smile in his beard at her touch. "No."
She watched his reaction appreciatively. "So. Rain, rain, go away, hmm?"
"And, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth," he said. "To destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under heaven; and every thing that is in the earth shall die."
"Yeah," she said incredulously. "You have to wonder why they didn't put it that way on the Weather Channel."
"I might write them a letter."
"And they'll listen to you?"
"First time for everything."
"History repeats itself," she countered.
"Everything old is new again. Are we done with Cliché Corner?"
"Whatever floats your boat."
He glared at her for a beat, then broke and laughed briefly. "I don't like cemeteries either."
"I would've been surprised if you did."
"This one is..." He pursed his lips. "A national monument. A place to honor heroes."
"That doesn't make it any less a graveyard."
"No." He watched the water pinging off the stones in front of them. "I try and come here, sometimes."
"Because of last Christmas?"
"Sure. And because everyone has to go somewhere after funerals."
She slipped a hand between her neck and her wet hair. "Yes, we do."
"I don't want--" He stood up abruptly, displacing her hand. "Let's get out of here."
"Your lips are turning blue," she observed.
"They are not."
"And your teeth are chattering. You're going to get sick, and then you're going to be a big baby and I'm going to have to bring you chicken soup."
"In bed?" he asked.
"Don't push me," she warned. She shrugged decisively out of her coat and draped it over his shoulders.
"What are you doing?"
"Preventive care."
"You're going to get sick," he pointed out, trying to pass the coat back.
She dodged him. "Well, then you'll just have to bring me chicken soup in bed, won't you?"
"I love how I get the short end of the stick." He started to walk toward the road.
"Look at this," she said. He stopped and saw a sodden American flag leaning against a tombstone. "Aren't you supposed to take them inside?"
He looked uncomfortable. "Unless it's weatherproof."
"This doesn't look very weatherproof." She started to stoop towards it.
"Leave things alone," he said, before she touched it.
She straightened up reluctantly. "Finish the quotation."
"What?"
"You said you were bringing a flood upon the earth. I went to Sunday School in my day. Finish the quotation."
"Take your coat," he ordered.
She rolled her eyes and accepted it. "Well?"
He hesitated for a moment, letting his eyes meet hers. "But with thee will I establish my covenant--"
"And thou shalt come into the ark," she finished, holding the gaze. "We're all going to be here. We'll take what we get. And you can't ride off into the sunset in this weather anyway."
He tilted his head. "You really do worry me."
"You're smiling," she accused.
"I'm smiling because you're wearing a white blouse."
She looked down at herself. "I'm not going to blush, you know."
"Keep telling yourself that."
"I'm not!" She shook her head, caught between frustration and amusement. "I'm drowning out here. Take me somewhere warm."
He led her toward his car. "This will not end pleasantly or soon."
She wiped some rain out of her eyes. "You don't have to tell me that."
"No, I don't. Grace Kelly?"
"You gonna argue with me?"
"No." He opened the car door for her. "No, I'm not. Ready to go?"
"Ready to go," she said. And they went.
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