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Sometimes you stare into your pantry and wonder how your life came to be like this.

There was food you had -- you remember buying it -- that is no longer there, and you know she stole it, because she gave you that "I can't believe you're going to put that crap in your body" look when you threw it in the cart. You explained to her that you come from the land of beer and cheese, and that this is how your people have eaten for centuries, but she rolled her eyes and wheeled the cart up the aisle without answering.

And then there are things you would never have bought -- suspect, herb-y, California-sounding things that only she could have put there. You know you should feel loved; she only wants you to be healthy, to live longer, after all, but it irritates you, because when you want Lucky Charms, you want Lucky Charms, damn it, not Kamut Crisp. It also occurs to you to wonder when and how she did this. Did she come in one day while you were out shopping with Carol and Bonnie -- in flagrant violation of the apartment key you gave her -- to do it in one fell swoop, or has she been switching one thing every time she's come over for months, creeping into your kitchen as subtly as she has into your life?

You've developed so many alternate methods of communication. Morse Code for the darknesss. A complex system of paper clip color and positioning for the office. You think about the time and planning it took you to perfect these codes -- and how amazing it is that it didn't feel like work at all while you were doing it -- and it seems like an awful lot of effort for something that wasn't supposed to be a relationship in the first place. It was supposed to be "one of those things" -- two nights tops, and then she was going to get on a plane and go back to California. But the President offered her a job, so instead of two nights tops, suddenly you're coming out of Josh's office one day and Bonnie looks at you strangely and says, "Donna, I know this is going to sound crazy, but Joey and Kenny have been coming through the bullpen all afternoon moving paper clips around on your desk."

One day when she was hyper and CJ was belligerent and Sam was withdrawn, you taped a sign to your desk that read, "Californians are crazy." That night she came to bed wearing one of your Green Bay Packers t-shirts and showed you a statistic she'd read that Wisconsin's annual beer consumption is higher than Germany's.

You think the food-switching started when you tried to explain the concept of cheese curds to her. They're...cubes of cheese? she signed, looking highly perplexed. You nodded. And you do...what with them, exactly?

Bread them and deep fry them. They're delicious. A Midwestern tradition.

Deep fried cheese cubes. She shook her head. By the way, I can hear your arteries screaming.

The next day you opened the freezer and found an organic mushroom-barley pocket sandwich where you were fairly sure there had previously been a pint of Chunky Monkey.

You've tried to convince that you care deeply about your health and what you eat, that you're not Josh and his charcoaled cheeseburgers (you heard that Dr Griffith said something to him about eating Tupperware, and you almost walked to her office and yelled at her, because you truly feared he would try it just to prove he could) or President Bartlet and his three-inch steaks (and are you right in remembering that Mrs Landingham stole a bunch of them from him once, after Dr Tolliver told him to cut down on red meat? You wonder if your girlfriend is channeling Mrs Landingham now). You watch what you eat; you're very big on salads and vegetables, and for the most part you steer clear of foods with high fat and cholesterol contents. But you're from the Dairy State, for crying out loud. Milk and eggs and butter and cheese were the centerpieces of your childhood, and what's the point of living forever if it's a life without an occasional dollop of sour cream? But of course none of this is about food -- it's about control, and whether or not she has any in your life.

Every now and then -- like yesterday when the chocolate cream pie went missing -- you think you should confront her, accuse her flat out of heinous crimes against humanity, but you're terrified of her answer. You fear that she won't say she's worried about your health, or that she's trying to get you to expand your gustatory horizons, but rather that she's...well, for lack of a better term, that she's moved in, and feels entitled to some space in your cabinets.

Then you're searching for your cardigan and notice that she has four outfits in your closet, and you realize that it's all a matter of semantics and rent checks -- she's moved in. Did she do that in stages, too? She's moved into your cupboards, your apartment, your heart, and you know you're terrified. Because you've told her you love her; you've said the words to her and she's said them back, but it's been so long since you were in a relationship where you really knew what "I love you" meant that you're not sure you can handle it now.

One night, though terrified of her reaction, you confessed that you slept with Josh once, and she laughed and told you it was okay, because she had, too. You think about that sometimes, the tightly connected circles of your accquantances, the strong bonds that make you all one -- and it makes you want to get out of Washington as fast as your car will carry you. Then you look at Josh and try to remember what it was that both of you saw in him, and you start to think that maybe it was each other.

So now you're staring into your pantry wondering how your life came to be like this. Kenny came up to you in the office today and said, "We'll probably be here until at least midnight tonight. Joey says don't wait up; you need the rest." But you've gotten so accustomed to her voice being the last thing you hear before you fall asleep at night, her touch being the last thing you feel, that you just can't get to sleep without her there.

And then you discover that the bag of potato chips you'd given up as lost are still hiding behind a bottle of Ginger-Echinacea Lemonade. It's not a fluke; she knew they were there and left them for you.

And you smile, because you think you remember now what "I love you" really means, so you pour a glass of Ginger-Echinacea Lemonade, open the chips, and curl up on the couch to wait for her to come home.