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SPOILERS:  Season two.
DISCLAIMER:  These characters aren't mine.  
SUMMARY:  Josh thinks about this summer.
THANKS:  To Jo, for writing the heartbreaking "What I Did 
On My Summer Vacation."  And to Morgan, for sparking this 
with the observation that Josh is far too disorganized to 
make a list.



Exit Strategy:  I'd Probably Lie
Ryo Sen



I looked around today and realized it's the middle of 
August.  What the hell happened to July?  Or June, for that 
matter?

Summer's virtually over and I have yet to do one fun, 
summerish thing.  I miss grade school, sometimes, for the 
long summer vacations.  And the part where your first day 
back to school consisted of writing an account of What I 
Did This Summer on that great paper with the huge lines.

I loved writing that essay.  My parents almost always took 
two weeks off each summer, during which time we'd pile into 
the car and end up somewhere we'd never been before.  By 
the time I was in high school, I'd visited more than half 
of the states and three Canadian provinces.

My only problem with the essay was my organizational 
disabilities.  I'd be all over the place, recounting an 
incident with my sister, Joanie, and her fear of cows in 
Iowa, then jump to the day we saw a six foot tall drag 
queen at the Jersey shore. 

I bet Donna never had that problem.  I bet Donna turned in 
a neatly organized little memo with bullet points and 
everything.

The thought gives me pause.

I think a big part of the reason I can't recall this summer 
is that Donna and I--We're not "Donna and I" anymore.  
Between that and the Senate hearings, I've probably blocked 
out most of the events of the past couple months.  

The moments I do remember are these perfectly preserved 
snippets of time.  Sights, sounds, emotions, all jumbled 
together and contextless, like unlabeled photographs tossed 
into a shoebox.

I don't remember what the president said that night.  I 
don't remember how he phrased it when he told the country 
he wasn't giving up.  I do remember watching him; I 
remember the look on his face.  I remember the way a 
droplet of rainwater slid down my back and gave me the 
chills.  I remember the surge of elation, the look on CJ's 
face.  I remember the sobering realization of What This 
Means, the way I looked for Donna in the crowd.

There are other moments:  Donna, standing in my office 
looking devastated and saying that we can't get married; 
CJ, wandering into my office late at night offering half a 
chocolate chip cookie, conversation, and comfort.  Sam and 
Toby, looking as if they hadn't slept in days as they 
analyzed and debated every single word the president would 
utter.  Leo, looking older than I've ever seen him, asking 
me if there are records of my visits with Stanley.

I remember the sick feeling when I found the clothes and 
things I'd left at Donna's in my backpack one sunny day.

I remember willing my hand not to shake as I raised it and 
recited the oath in front of Congress and everyone glued to 
C-Span.

I remember the night I couldn't stand the insomnia anymore 
and ran myself into exhaustion before dropping, finally, 
into sleep.

I remember the weekend my mother fed me brownies and 
solace, and told me that Donna loves me.

I remember the stress headaches.

I remember the insulting questions from Senator Baker.

I remember the way my abused muscles protested weeks on end 
of little sleep and no physical therapy.

I remember Donna avoiding my gaze and mumbling something 
about her friend and a gym membership.

I remember Sam getting me good and drunk and letting me sob 
into his couch cushions.

I remember Zoey's drawn face on TV as she testified in 
front of Congress, her voice quavering.

I remember the president staring sightlessly out into the 
night as we gathered in the Oval Office one dark evening.

I remember the day it finally descended into chaos, when 
someone in the Communications bullpen had a summery pop 
song cranked up as I walked past.  I remember the sickening 
dread, the sudden sweaty panic, the way the flashback hit 
too fast for me to swallow it back down.  I remember Leo 
finding me in the Roosevelt Room, propped with my back 
against the wall.  I remember Toby and Sam half-carrying me 
into Leo's office, panic etched in the lines of their 
faces.  I remember Donna's terrified expression when she 
came running in to take me home.

I remember the way they all treated me like blown glass for 
a week afterwards.  

I remember hating my weakness, and hating them for seeing 
my weakness.

All in all, I can't say it's been a particularly good 
summer.  I wish I could write a childish essay about 
beaches and the sharp smell of sunscreen and long, lazy 
afternoons.  The truth, I've decided, is far too 
depressing.

In fact, if I had to write an account of What I Did This 
Summer, I'd probably lie.

THE END

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