He Missed...
Ali Cherry
He missed the smell of coconut-oiled skin roasting on the sand. The way the smell drifted lazily from the bronzed bodies laid beside the ocean waves, like coffins waiting for their graves.
He missed the way the sun beat down on his shoulders, heating his skin and unknotting his tense muscles.
He missed the way the wind carried with it the smell of the clean frothy waves, that slightly fishy smell that nipped at his nose. So unlike the heavy taste of stale and stagnant water that drifted from the calm Atlantic.
There was something soothing about the untamable Pacific, the way the waves crashed against the sand, the stretch of blue reaching across the horizon to meet the sun and stars. There was a freshness that existed on the West that didn't here on the East. A certain quality he had never found on the limitless sand dunes of the South or the overcrowded jaded beaches of the Northeast.
He missed the Pacific.
He missed the way the warm sun muddled his thoughts, sent him into standby mode as easily as he sent his computer. Just the click of a button, just the gentle sound of waves lapping at his feet. So little stimuli to ease his tired and tortured brain into a placid dream.
There was so much to do, too much to think of. No release from the inescapable problems of Washington D.C.
There are times when we are absolutely nowhere.
About eight years ago, I was diagnosed with Relapsing Remitting Multiple Sclerosis.
He loved the ocean. Loved sailing on it, inviting the wind to move, to stir his soul, to wash him clean of the pale gray imitation of passion that invaded his heart.
He was so tired.
There was too much to save.
The Real Thing.
He's not the real thing, is he?
You won't have to tell me. . . You have a terrible poker face.
He missed the gentle lies Californians told each other. He missed the harsh gossip in the media about this affair or that scandal. He missed the blasé attitude that he had grown up with. He missed being able to count on the lies. He missed the subtle cynicism he had had as a young man. When had he lost it? When had he abandoned his upbringing for that idealism and naiveté that he was legendary for?
The real question is: how did he not get caught until now?
It's a privilege; we should attack with energy due the moment . . . I can't go.
He missed being a good guy. He missed being a rich California boy who had descended from on high to help the underdog. He liked being the right one in the West Wing. He loved countering Toby's fanaticism with his cool logic. He missed being able to smack down hypocrites.
So you're committed to religious freedom for all people unless you don't like what they have to say.
You ever call the President a coward again for your own PR purposes, it's not going to be CJ Cregg you have to deal with, it's gonna be me.
Because the Bureau will be embarrassed isn't a good enough reason.
He missed his doughnut-stealing assistant of the quick wit and unsympathetic gaze. He missed her supporting presence standing beside him, pushing and pulling at him, reminding him so much of the girls he had grown up with. Girls that had grown into women of incredible strength and intelligence, just like Kathy.
I know women who can blow the walls off brick buildings.
I mean she's like my younger sister, but she gets paid and she frightens me. But I love her.
He missed her stealing his doughnuts, and letting people in his office to harass him. He missed her teasing him about the way he referred to freeways. Loved her look of fury when he called San Francisco, Frisco.
He missed life before. Before.
I serve at the pleasure of President Bartlet.
I'm the Deputy White House Communications Director.
He missed California. He missed making a difference.
Put him on a bus.
He missed knowing the answers.
So we're going to need an answer to that too.
He missed the days when cell phones didn't ring at the beach.
“Seaborn.” He wished his voice were a little livelier.
“Sam, Toby wants to see you.”
“I'm at the beach, Bonnie.”
“It's raining.”
“I missed the sun.”
“It's been raining for a few days, Sam.”
“A couple drops and it all starts coming down.”
“Sam?”
“Yeah, I'm on my way.” Sam clicked off his phone and stared at the gray skies that melded into his heart.
He missed the sun and the warm coconut bronzed skin. He missed California and Kathy and knowing the answers and being right.
He missed being…
Spanky
Sparky
Skipper
Baby
Freak
Sam
Samuel
Samuel Norman Seaborn
My name is Sam Seaborn and I'm the Deputy White House Communications Director.
HOME | TITLE |
AUTHOR | CATEGORY