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The show ER and all characters and situations borrowed from it are property of
Constant-C, NBC, Warner Bros., etc. This fanfiction is for entertainment only and no
profit is derived from it.
Note: This story contains language and consensual sex scenes which are inappropriate for
those under 18.
All my stories can be found archived under my name at:
http://www.oocities.org/TelevisionCity/Studio/5437/
http://www.jsentertainment.com/gilbert/terffa
http://members.tripod.com/~maraldo/liz.html
I enjoy your feedback, so feel free to let me know what you think of this or any other
story. :-)
Argument With Myself
by Elizabeth
Eliz1296@aol.com
"I had prepared a very elaborate argument ... does this mean I don't need it?"
I already had the argument ... with myself."
--Doug and Carol, "Friendly Fire"
This story takes place in ER's Season Four, immediately after "Freak Show."
_____________________________________________
Spend all your time waiting for that second chance,
for a break that would make it okay.
There's always some reason to feel not good enough,
and it's hard at the end of the day.
"Angel," Sarah McLachlan
__________________________________________
You walk up the porch steps, skipping over the loose one that still needs to be fixed.
You're dead tired and still a little unsteady from the Merlot. You really shouldn't drink
on an empty stomach.
You open the front door and step inside the house. It's dark and quiet, stuffy because
it's been shut up for hours. You turn on the lights and put down your keys, feeling a
little of the old dread rising up into your throat. The sick feeling of coming home alone.
It's been a long time since you felt this way. You got past this. You learned to live
alone and like it. You learned to be in control of your life.
And now see what's happened.
You walk quickly to the telephone with a flutter of excitement in your stomach. There's a
catch in your throat when you look at the light on the machine. Damn. No messages.
You go to your room and glance at the bed, noticing the smooth covers. It was so easy to
make this morning, because you only slept on one side last night.
Even in your sleep you're thinking about him.
It's so damn tempting, to get used to him being here. To rely on it, even though you've
told yourself a thousand times that it's dangerous to rely on *him.*
You kick your shoes into the closet and pull off your clothes, getting comfortable,
stretching your neck to relieve the tension and the ache there. If he were here, he would
put his hands on you and knead the sore muscles, make them loose and relaxed.
He would take care of you.
The bathroom looks strangely empty when you walk in, the counters clear for a change. You
put his toothbrush and a little tube of toothpaste into his shaving kit for him the night
he left.
You don't like the stillness of the spotless kitchen. There's no dirty cereal bowl in the
sink or toast crumbs on the counter. It screams at you - no one's been there since
you left this morning.
The loneliness is overwhelming.
"Oh, man," you say aloud, just to break the silence. You're getting in so much
deeper than you ever intended to. So much deeper than you should. Getting way too attached
to him.
You pull a diet dinner out of the freezer, open the package and stick it in the microwave.
You're not hungry, but he can't stand these things, so you might as well finish them while
he's gone. You sure aren't going to cook tonight.
You find your purse by the door and pull a piece of paper out of it. You walk to the couch
and sit down, folding your legs underneath you. Opening the paper up and smoothing it, you
glance at the first few lines and immediately feel yourself blushing.
Oh god, you can't send this.
You remind yourself not to worry about it. You don't have an address anyway. You relax a
little, remembering that, and read it again.
_____________________________________________
I need some distraction, oh, beautiful,
these memories seeped from my veins.
They may be empty, oh, they're weightless
and maybe, I'll find some peace tonight.
_____________________________________________
By the time you read the last line, you're hot and wet. You close your eyes and crumple up
the paper, ashamed at how needy it sounds.
This is all getting hauntingly familiar.
Here you are: Warming up dinner alone, forcing yourself to eat even though you have no
appetite, waiting around for him to call. Getting turned on fantasizing about him. Knowing
you won't be able to sleep without him.
Oh, god.
You go into the kitchen to stop the beeping of the microwave. You tear up the sheet of
paper and toss the pieces into the trash can with a sigh. You pull the little tray out and
take it to the table.
You hated yourself back then. And you hated him almost as much. Almost as much as you
loved him. Is that where you're going with this? Back there again? What's happened to the
strong, independent person you thought you'd finally become?
Was it a mistake to let him back into your life?
You don't know. It's hard to think clearly lately. So powerful is his tenderness, his
consistency in your life now, that it is easy to be lost in it. Easy to let yourself be
ensnared by his caring, his gentleness, his strength. To sit on the porch in the dark and
let your back rest against him, let his body support yours, his heart thumping steadily
under your ear. To take refuge in his arms at night, to let his chest be your pillow, to
believe in his warmth - that he will be there, always, in your bed.
It is so easy to need him.
You start eating and glance at the clock. It's late. Why hasn't he called? Was there an
accident on the interstate today? How reliable is that old car anyway? Or ... Did he check
into a motel with a bar next door? And did he spot a woman sitting there who looked so
easy that he couldn't resist her? Short skirt, tight sweater, high heels. Gretchen or
Heather or Linda or... Nadine.
Did he walk over to her, his head down, his eyes smiling up at her, charming her? Did he
buy her a drink? Are they walking back to his hotel room right now, his arm around her
waist, holding her close?
Stop. Stop this.
You have to trust him or this isn't going to work. He's different now. He says he loves
you. He's changed.
But ... he's only human. And he has a history you can't forget. A history of taking
advantage, getting out of commitments, using women for his pleasure and then discarding
them when he was done.
That's the tough part. He's done so many wonderful things lately, been so kind. But his
nearness has dredged up so many bad memories, things you thought you forgot, years ago.
And even though you can't tell him how you're feeling, you're nervous. Insecure. You can't
relax.
Something in you keeps waiting for that other shoe to drop.
You can't quite believe that he'll be there in the morning. That he's just working late
when he doesn't come over on time. All those bad memories, the scary feelings, keep
telling you something different is going on.
It's all come back so vividly: The nights when you'd wait for him to show up at your
apartment, even though you suspected he was with an other woman. You'd let him come in
anyway, hating it, but taking him to your bed anyway, choking on the perfume he reeked of
because you wanted him and loved him so desperately. Needed him to want you. Needed him to
need you. And in the morning you'd wake up alone and swear that you'd never let him do it
to you again. Until the next time.
How sick was that?
Oh yes. It's all come back, over the last few months. Every embarrassingly public
betrayal. Every time he stood you up. The night he showed up drunk at your mother's
birthday party and she screamed at him in Russian. The times you'd go to bed alone and cry
yourself to sleep. The feeling that your life was out of control.
The nights you went to him, desire and desperation all mixed up in your heart. The
horrible way you betrayed your fiance with him. The devastating morning, afterward. The
night you finally swallowed a bunch of pills.
And now you feel yourself becoming vulnerable - becoming dependent on him - again. It's
like he's already crossed some kind of boundary and he's intent on taking you to the other
side with him. He's urging you, pulling you down with him. Trouble is, you're too scared
to take the plunge.
No, something in you keeps watching and waiting. Waiting for the day when you'll start to
catch him again, catch him in little lies. Just small things, things he tells you don't
really matter. Don't really change anything. But those small lies will become bigger and
bigger. And then....
"Oh, god." You say it aloud this time. Then you pick up what's left of your
dinner and throw it in the trash can under the sink.
You go into your room and lie down on your bed, closing your eyes. He's not the same man
he was then.
He's changed.
And oh, you miss him. Miss his eyes, his smile. Miss the envious looks you get, going out
with him, holding his hand. You miss the heady way it makes you feel, being the one he
wants.
You miss his razor-sharp sense of humor so much. The funny comments he makes about
everyone at work, laying in bed next to you at night, making you laugh hysterically into
your pillow. The way he can tell who's flirting with who and who's lusting secretly after
who.
You miss the little endearing things you've discovered, being around him so much. The way
he sleeps with socks on when it's cold. The cereal he eats - without milk - before bed.
The way he walks, wide-legged like an athlete. He way he looks around the house for you
when he comes in, seeking the reassurance of your smile and kiss.
You think of the way his head tilts and his eyes follow you around, smoldering, when he
wants you. The way he sometimes gives you a little shake and a slap on the butt when he's
hugging you goodbye. His fondness for waking you up and making love to you early in the
morning, when you're still warm and soft and sleepy under the covers with him.
Oh yeah. You miss him. You get up and open the door of his wardrobe. His shirts are lined
up there neatly. You step closer and bury your face in them and close your eyes, breathing
deeply. You smile. There is a little bit of him still here.
You pull your nightgown over your head and toss it on the floor. Then you take one of his
shirts off the hanger and rub your face across the cottony grain of it. You slip your arms
through the sleeves and button it up the front, smiling. It's the closest you'll get to
being wrapped in his arms, at least for tonight.
You brush your teeth and your hair and go around to his side of the bed, pulling back the
covers and getting in. Yes, the pillow smells like him, a little. You close your eyes and
breathe him in.
_____________________________________________
In the arms of the angel, fly away from here
from this dark, cool hotel room and the endlessness that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie.
You're in the arms of the angel...
May you find some comfort here.
_____________________________________________
You walk down the cold, poorly lit hallway to number 63. Fit the key into the lock, push
the door open, only to be met by the overwhelmingly dank, artificial smell of yet another
cheap hotel room.
You search for the light switch and flip it up, walk in and heft your suitcase onto the
bed closest to the door and sit down on the other bed to take off your shoes.
Alone again, naturally. You smile wryly, remembering the tune, then check the digital
clock above the TV. Too late. Too late to call now, with the time difference.
Damn. The story of your life: miserable timing, missed opportunities. Stubborn
insistence on having your own way, constant need to prove yourself, to fight with someone.
No wonder you were alone, forever it seemed.
Never isolated, because you were always surrounded by people. Plenty of women, your
buddies, co-workers. Always popular, in fact. Funny. A fun guy to be around.
But really always alone. Lonely. Never letting yourself get too close to anyone. Never
staying in one place very long. Preferring the one-night stand. Avoiding the awkward
"morning-after" as often as possible. Sleeping alone, waking up with yourself.
And now, suddenly, you've gotten out of the habit. Gotten comfortable being with someone.
Being committed. You're amazed: It makes you smile to think how much you love it. Sleeping
with her, waking up with her. Going to her house after work and finding her making dinner
for you. Or, if it's late, keeping your side of the bed warm.
Waiting for you.
You smile again. It's gotten so that you hate going to your own apartment. You'd rather
hang around and wait for her to finish her shift if she's working late. As anxious as you
used to be to get out of that hospital, now you'd rather stay and go home with her.
Sometimes, you feel like you're drowning in her. In her hair - waking up in the night and
finding it splayed across your pillow. Burying your face in the familiar smell of flowers
that always made you crave her. Basking in her smile, when she turned it on you
full-force, completely unaware of how it makes you feel. Not realizing how happy you are,
to be reflected in her light.
Finding her things, intimate things, mixed up with yours when it's your turn to do the
laundry down in the basement. Shaving in a bathroom filled with nail polish and
cottonballs and mascara and ... tampons. It makes you laugh, drying your face on one of
her soft, pretty towels.
You could get used to it. In fact, you can't imagine going back to the empty, lonely life
that seemed so normal before. Cold, impersonal hotel rooms like this one and cold,
impersonal relations with women who were so drunk they couldn't quite catch your name. A
long line of women you slept with and never even saw again. Then, after the cheap thrill
of anonymous sex, home to a cold bed with no one there to warm you up. No one to reach for
you, pull you close, make love to you again - surprising you - in the middle of the night.
You head to the bathroom, still thinking about her, smiling at your reflection in the
mirror, wishing she were here with you.
So this is what it's like, being in love. That's what Mark said.
Amazing, that you'd never felt it before, gone through so many women, gotten so far along
in your life, without ever really experiencing it before.
Oh, you'd said it, told women you loved them, but always the words stuck in your throat.
They felt wrong, uncomfortable, false. As soon as they left your mouth you felt pressured,
scared, boxed in. Trapped.
Only with Carol - years ago - did you really wonder if you were in love. But back then it
scared you to even think it, let alone live it out. By the time you recognized it,
admitted it to yourself, it was too late.
Another missed opportunity, the biggest one of all.
You walk back into the room and take your clothes off, throw them over a chair, pull the
covers off the bed and sit down, turning on the TV.
You were afraid to say the words at first, of course. Not because you were afraid of being
trapped, but because you knew she wouldn't be able to say them back. She's still scared,
still worried about trusting you. You know the feeling all too well. The old fear of
emotion and awkwardness. Of rejection.
So you said it first - couldn't hold the words back, really - the night you left. Waited,
breathless, a split-second, for her reaction. But when there was none - when she only
stared, stunned - you bolted. Took off too quickly, probably, afraid that she would feel
pressured to say something that she didn't feel.
You know how that is. And you never want it to happen to her.
You sigh and look at the phone, glance back up at the TV. The local weatherman is doing
his thing, pointing at a chart, but you aren't listening.
You're still thinking about calling her, wondering if she's already sleeping - if she'd
mind being woken up. Wondering, a little, why she wasn't home earlier, when you called
from the diner and got her machine. You should have left a message, just to let her know
you were all right, tell her you were going to drive a while longer, try to make up for
the time you lost while the car was being fixed.
She probably had to work late getting the clinic set up. Or maybe she went out after work.
Or dropped by her mother's place.
Maybe she decided to tell her mother and everybody at work about the two of you. Maybe
she's starting to trust you, finally, after your time together last week in California.
You still get it. A rush of joy, thinking about that moment. The moment that probably
meant more to you than any other in your life so far. Christmas morning and your birthday,
when you were a kid, all wrapped up together. And more.
You'd been feeling so miserable, missing her so much, thinking about her all the time you
were trying to make sense of the messy details of your dad's wreck of a life. Cleaning up
after him, one last time.
Then you glanced up into the glare of the dusty motel courtyard and saw her standing
there, hesitant and looking a little lost, like a mirage all shimmering in the sun.
And after the shock of recognition, when she looked at you and your eyes locked, you knew
it. Immediately, even though she hadn't said a word. Without a doubt.
She loves you.
She couldn't say it, but she showed it. She came to be with you. She does love you after
all.
You'd nearly knocked Mark over, going to her, watching her walk to you, your heart in your
throat suddenly, tears in your eyes. Kissing her, letting her take you in her arms.
God, you needed her right then. Needed her comforting. Needed her love. And she was there
for you.
And she'd finally told you, later that night in the room, after you'd gone to the funeral
home and eaten and talked and made all the arrangements and spent time with Mark.
Alone in your motel room, she'd told you with looks and touches how much she missed you.
And you'd looked back at her and reached for her and showed her how much you missed her.
Kissed her, held her, possessed her and felt her yield to you, so sweetly, so lovingly.
Afterwards, you were lying side-by-side, your arm around her, her head resting on your
chest.
"I still can't believe it. I can't believe you came all the way out here to be with
me."
"Well, you needed me. It wasn't that hard to get some time off. I hardly ever take a
sick day."
"Thanks. I did need you .... I do. I do need you. I think I always have. I love you,
Carol."
There was a pause. You kept looking at the ceiling, holding your breath again, a little,
but trying not to let her notice.
"I ... I do too, Doug. I need you too."
You turned to look down at her then, feeling alert, hopeful, but knowing you would be hurt
- badly - if she left it at that.
She just looked at you, beautiful eyes searching yours, and you knew she was aware. She
knew what you were waiting for.
"I..." she looked down for a moment and took a deep breath, then scanned your
face again and raised her eyes to yours.
"I love you too, Doug."
She sighed and shivered a little, then, despite the warmth of your arms. And you squeezed
her tightly, kissed her mouth, wondering if you looked as giddy as you felt, suddenly,
with a huge grin coming over your face and a chuckle of relief slipping out from deep in
your throat.
Oh god, the sheer happiness, just to hear her say it. A dream coming true - a dream that
you'd held in your heart such a long time. A moment that you thought would exist only in
your mind forever, finally happening.
She'd said it once before. But that had been long ago, and you were drunk and scared to
death.
This time, you took in the moment fully, hearing her say it, seeing the look on her face -
trepidation and courage and love all fighting there - and recognizing the truth of the
words in her eyes. Feeling her body nestled against yours, relaxed. You closed your eyes
and pulled her closer, breathing her in and kissing her forehead.
You didn't need to say another word.
________________________________________
So tired of the straight life
and everywhere you turn,
there's vultures and thieves at your back.
Storm keeps on twisting, keep on building
the lies that you make up for all that you lack.
Don't make no difference, escaping one last time,
it's easier to believe.
And this sweet madness, oh, this glorious sadness,
it brings me to my knees.
_____________________________________________
The hallway is dark and you're trying desperately to find something. What is it? You run
down the hall, looking in the little windows in the doors on both sides, but you can't
remember what you're looking for.
What is it?
A trauma. There's a trauma coming in and you have to find Doug, tell him there's a kid who
needs him. But you just can't move fast enough. You feel like you're walking through
water, like you're drowning.
Finally, you reach the on-call room where Doug is sleeping. You yank open the door and
start to say his name, tell him to wake up and come quickly. But something stops you
abruptly.
It's dark and you can't see anything, but you hear something ... familiar. Something that
makes your stomach churn, suddenly. That makes your heart hurt.
His deep, seductive voice, rumbling in his throat, murmuring praise. A moment later, it is
answered by another voice, high with giggles and sharp with sighs.
Suddenly the room isn't dark anymore and you can see them, on the bed right in front of
you. Doug and a woman. You can't see her face but you can see the blonde strands of her
hair in his fingers. They are laying on the narrow bed together, groping and kissing.
His scrub top is bunched up under his arms and his pants are loose. Her top is on the
floor and her bra is unhooked, her pants slid down around her hips, revealing a lacy pair
of black panties.
You're staring in horror, in shock, your heart racing. You can't move. You try to leave,
try desperately to turn your eyes away, but you can't. You can't seem to stop staring at
them.
And they don't notice you at all.
All the rumors, over all the years. You've believed some of them, disregarded most. But
this. This is different. You've never seen this - never seen him being intimate with
someone else. Doing all the things he does to you, saying all the same words he says to
you in the moments that mean everything to you, during the nights that define your
existence.
But he's with another woman. His mouth on her mouth, his tongue teasing her nipples, his
hands reaching down to part her thighs, his body covering her completely.
How - HOW - can he share all this so casually with someone else?! When it was not casual -
it was never casual - for you?
Finally, your feet start to work and you turn and leave the room, flee down the hall, sick
to your stomach, eyes filled with tears that blind you.
You are outside now, somehow, in the dark, racing through the ambulance bay and Mark
Greene is following you, calling out your name.
"Carol, can you check out ..... Carol? Carol, are you okay?!" Mark tries to stop
you, but you have to keep on running.
"Carol! What's wrong?!" Mark is still following you and you don't know how to
escape him. Suddenly you're at a dead end in an unfamiliar alley with nowhere else to run.
You stop finally, gasping for air and putting your arms out to keep Mark from getting too
close.
"Nothing ... nothing's wrong Mark," you say, leaning against the wall and
turning your face away from him.
"Carol ... tell me. Please, tell me what's wrong." Mark reaches for your arm
gently.
"No, Mark. Oh, god! I don't know what to do. It's, it's ... oh, he's such a bastard!
He ... I, I don't mean anything to him, Mark. The son-of-a-bitch!" You're crying hard
now, sobbing and pushing your body into a corner. Trying to hide.
Your knees are weak, your head feels light and dizzy. Suddenly, your legs crumple and you
start to lose your balance.
Your eyes open. You're really crying, sobbing, gasping for air. Where are you now? You
can't figure it out, but you're somewhere else again and it's so dark. You reach out,
blindly, and feel the covers and your pillow on the other side of the bed.
Oh. Oh god.
You're in bed. You're still in your bed and it's just a dream. It's a nightmare.
You sit up and turn the light on, shaking like a leaf and still crying a little. God. You
take some deep breaths and try to get a grip. It was just a dream.
The old rumor about Doug and the surgical tech, back in the days when you and Doug were
first dating and you were falling in love with him. You hadn't thought about it in years,
but somewhere, in the back of your mind, you'd never really forgotten the gossip. The
salacious talk about how they snuck away to the on-call room during a slow night and did
it, right there. On the one night of the whole year that you called in sick.
You'd heard about it in the usual way, a couple days afterwards, walking in on the excited
whispers of a group of nurses and then wrestling the sordid details out of Wendy later on.
But you really hadn't ever believed it. Even Doug wouldn't do something that risky, that
stupid, not right under everyone's nose. Or would he?
You simply chose to ignore it, at the time. You knew by then that he hadn't been faithful
to you during your time together. You knew he didn't love you. So you pretended not to
hear the gossip, you put your doubts and hurts in the back of your mind, swallowed your
pride and your pain, ignored the laughter ... all because you just wanted to be with him
so damn much.
And now you *are* with him. So why are you dreaming about this?
____________________________________________
In the arms of the angel, fly away from here.
From this dark, cool hotel room and the endlessness that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie.
In the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort here.
You're in the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort here.
_____________________________________________
Carol gets up, wiping her eyes, and stumbles to the bathroom to splash water on her face
and get a drink from the tap.
Oh, that was so real. So frightening. She felt so lost, running away through the dark. She
felt so useless, so rejected, so ... replaceable and insignificant.
She turns on the bathroom light and looks at her red, tear-stained face in the medicine
chest mirror.
*What in the hell are you doing, getting back together with Doug Ross again? Letting him
get to you like this again? No one else would be stupid enough to do this - no one but
you.*
The telephone starts to ring.
Carol hesitates, momentarily, then walks quickly back to the bedroom, glancing at the
clock. Is this him, calling finally in the middle of the night? Is it because he's feeling
guilty?
"Hello?"
Just the sound of her voice brings a smile to his face.
"Hey, did I wake you?" His voice is soft and warm.
"No. No, I was .... up."
"Yeah, well, I'm sorry it's so late. I was making good time on the road and I decided
to keep driving after I stopped for dinner - try to make up for some of the time I lost
while the car was in the shop."
"Oh."
"I called earlier, but you weren't home and so, uh, I kept driving."
"I went out for a drink after work."
"Oh? Uh-huh, with the gang, or ... ?"
"With Elizabeth Corday. I was home by 9. Why didn't you leave a message? I was
thinking ... I was getting worried about you."
"Oh, I was at a payphone in a diner. I figured, it was noisy, and I wanted to talk to
you, not your machine. So ... I, I just thought I'd catch you later. I forgot about how
late it would be there, with the time difference. I didn't check into the motel until just
a little while ago."
"Hmmm."
"I almost didn't call, y'know, because I didn't want to wake you. But I didn't think
I could sleep unless I, uh, unless I talked to you."
Doug is feeling awkward now, picking up the curtness in her voice, figuring she's angry
with him for not calling earlier.
He closes his eyes a minute, twisting the phone cord in his fingers nervously. "I ...
I feel lonely, sleeping alone. I miss you, Carol."
She purses her lips, then smiles a little at his sweetly shy confession. She feels her
sense of shock and betrayal melting. It was only a dream.
"Yeah. I know. I ... I miss you too."
"You do?"
"Umm. Yeah. A lot."
"Is everything okay? You sounded kind of ... upset, before."
"No, it's fine. I'm fine. It's just ... there was a mix-up at the clinic today and a
whole bunch of patients showed up that we weren't ready for. It was pretty hectic. Oh, and
Doug, you know what? I lost your letter, the one Mark gave me."
"Oh no, Carol."
"I swear I put it with some other papers on my clipboard and then when I got a minute
to read it, it wasn't there. I looked all over but I couldn't find it."
Doug chuckles suddenly, realizing. "Oh my god, I hope nobody else found it."
"What!? Doug - why? Oh man, was it ... obscene?"
"Uh, well, I'd prefer passionate, but some people might call it obscene."
"Oh god, Doug! What did it say? Were our names in it?"
"Um ... no, actually I don't think your name was on it. Just your initials on the
front. And I didn't sign it, either, I just stuffed it in the envelope before Mark left.
It was, uh, just a ... well, a fantasy of mine. Don't worry about it, Carol. I'll write
you another one and give it to you when I get back."
"I hope so."
"I will. Or better yet, I'll show you when I get there, okay?" He chuckles.
"Um, I'd better let you get some sleep. And I've got a lot more driving to do
tomorrow and I want to get an early start."
Carol starts thinking about hanging up, trying to go back to sleep. And the image - Doug
and the blonde - comes back to her then, vividly.
"Doug ... " Her voice was a whisper.
"Yeah? What?"
"Doug ... did you ever really ...?" The whisper trailed off.
"Ever what, Carol?"
"Ever ... uh, nothing. I ... I just wondered if you ever got a hold of your mother.
She's called here a couple times, asking for you."
"Oh, yeah I did. I talked to her this morning. It's ... you know, it's rough, but
she's okay. I'll tell you all about it when I get back, all right?"
"Yeah ... okay. Doug?"
"Yeah?" There's a smile in his voice, acknowledging that she doesn't want him to
hang up. And that it makes him happy.
"I ... I haven't been sleeping very well lately, either. It's not that easy anymore,
without you here."
"Oh, really?" he chuckles, pleased again. "Can't get along without me,
huh?"
"No, I guess I can't. Not very well, anyway."
"I like that. I hope you don't have to do it too much longer." He pauses for a
moment, hoping. Maybe she'll say it first, this time.
Carol waits quietly. He waits too, silent, holding his breath again.
"Okay, well ... g'night, Doug."
He closes his eyes, disappointed.
"Good night, Carol ... I love you."
"I love you, too."
THE END
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