4Heathcliff is here again. He keeps glancing at me like he wants me to leave, but of course I don't budge. Like I'm leaving Donna alone in a room with a bodice-ripping foreign correspondent, even if she is immobile. I'm wary of his intentions. I look at him caressing the back of her hand and suppress a snort of disgust. For crying out loud, how much bodice-ripping does he really think he's going to be able to do while she's stuck here in a hospital bed with a metal rod in her leg?
I need to not have thoughts like that. Thoughts like that lead to other thoughts. Like if it would be possible for me to use his own camera strap to strangle him to death. I eye the camera on the bedside table. I bet I could. It wouldn't be that hard. I could take him, no problem. I have at least an inch on him. Maybe two. Okay, so he looks like he's seen the inside of a gym a little more recently than I have, but I do have that inch on him. Maybe two.
He's glaring at me now. He's resorting to head jerking, looking back and forth between me and the door in the universal sign for 'me and my girlfriend want to be alone now, you schmuck.' I ignore him obstinately.
Maybe I would be swayed by the head jerking if I really thought he was entitled to call Donna his girlfriend, but I don't. I mean, come on. He's known her what, a week? So he showed her around Gaza. Sounds like a glorified tour guide to me. Hardly enough time to develop a lasting emotional attachment. And all right, he made this huge, sweeping gesture by flying up here to see her in the hospital. But again, he barely knows her. So that makes it creepy, right? That sort of stalker-like behavior can't be desirable in a potential beau. Yeah, says a little voice in my head. Not like using your position as her boss to keep her near you at all times, showing up drunk at her apartment on weekends, and sabotaging her dates for six years. That gets the girls every time.
Shut up, I tell it as I watch Heathcliff lean towards Donna and speak to her in a low voice, looking into her eyes intently. I wonder briefly if there's any way I could get a nurse to call him away on some sort of journalistic emergency. He glances at me again and I stare at him stonily. He sighs and turns his attention back to Donna, gazing at her fondly.
Hmph. Just where does he see this relationship going, exactly? I mean, whatever they had in Gaza, I'm sure she thought it was over once she left. You know, a little romance while traveling in an exotic foreign place, fun while it lasts, but ultimately destined to be nothing more than a fond memory. But then stalker camera boy shows up here in the hospital, and you have to wonder what he's thinking. I mean, he's from Ireland, he works in Israel, and she lives in DC. They can't be thinking about having a long distance relationship. Those never work.
Then what is he doing here? Oh God. Maybe he's hoping to transfer to the States and work in Washington. I take a deep breath and remind myself not to flip out at the thought of Donna and Heathcliff having a not-so-long-distance relationship back in DC. Really, there's no need to panic. I know some people pretty high up at the State Department. A few calls here and there and Irish boy won't even be able to mail a letter to the U.S., let alone move to DC to woo my Donna in person.
He's leaving. I smile. He's still glaring at me, but he's leaving. "See you, Colin," I say cheerfully.
"Bye Josh," he says. "Donna. I'll come by in the morning," he says softly, dropping a kiss on her forehead. My smile disappears. Again? He's coming back again? Doesn't he have a job? What sort of wastrel is he, to just spend all his time seducing young government aides and visiting them in hospitals? I'm going to call his paper and ask them what they think of this sort of irresponsible journalism.
Colin leaves, after casting one more long look from the doorway at Donna, who gives him a shy smile. He grins back and heads down the hall, whistling. Bastard.
A nurse comes in with a tray for Donna and I collapse into the chair next to her bed. My chair. Not the one on the other side of the bed that Colin has been sitting in. His chair is closer to the bed than mine. I scoot forward a little on the pretext of examining the contents of her lunch tray. "You hungry?" I ask.
She shakes her head tiredly. "Not really. Thirsty though."
I hand her a glass of orange juice with a straw in it, which she puts to her lips with a soft sigh. "You should eat," I urge her. "You need your strength."
"The medicine makes me nauseous," she says.
"I had the nurse bring you some plain toast. That should settle your stomach a little," I say.
"Maybe in a little while," she says.
"Okay," I reply, sitting back in my chair to ruminate on the problem of the dashing photojournalist haunting the halls of the hospital. I suppose I can't actually kill him. I'd be sent to jail and Donna would be an office widow. I can't do that to her. Plus, she'd probably be pretty pissed if I killed her boyfriend.
Okay, so homicide's out. I could have him kidnapped, but he might escape and come back. Can't have that. I need to get rid of him, but I can't rely on force, so I need to think of some other way of keeping him away from Donna. I mull this over for a moment. It would be easiest, of course, if he just went away voluntarily. I look over at Donna sipping her orange juice and shake my head. He's never going to find another woman as sweet, funny, smart, and beautiful as she is. No way he's going to leave her of his own volition.
No, the only way he'll ever leave is if Donna sends him away. So all I have to do is make sure Donna realizes what a gomer he is, she'll send him packing, and all my troubles will be over. Donnatella will be mine again. I frown. There's only one problem with this plan. Despite my personal dislike for the man, I have yet to find one gomer-like quality about him. But it's only a matter of time. Something will turn up.
I cast my mind about, searching for some evidence of gomerism. He's a journalist, right? And journalists often are ruthless in the pursuit of their stories, they use ethically questionably tactics to achieve their aims. Not like politicians. We are open and above board in our dealings, honorable, dedicated to the truth at all costs and... oh, hell.
Well, there must be something wrong with him, dammit! I think about the little I know about him. He works in Gaza, one of the most dangerous places in the world, in order to bring understanding to the rest of the world about the troubled nation of Israel. From what Donna's told me, he understands the vast complexity of the situation there, yet he's committed to his work and portraying the two sides objectively. He obviously believes in what he's doing, or he wouldn't risk life and limb to stay there and work. Crap, he's brave, too.
He's smart. You don't have to hear his articulate comments about the Palistinean-Israeli conflict to know that. All you have to know is that he realized Donna is something special the first time he saw her. If that weren't enough, all you'd need to know is that he followed her to Germany to keep her from walking out of his life.
This is depressing me. Let's move on. He's not the best looking guy around. Okay, so he might have some features that a woman might find appealing, like a dashing smile and a mischievous glint in his eye, but he's shorter than me. By an inch. Maybe two.
Anyway, even if he is tall, dark, and handsome, it doesn't mean he can bring the woo. Donna might think lines like 'returning before first light' are charming and romantic, but what does she know? She thinks Lord John Marbury is charming, when Leo and I both agree that he is certifiably insane. The point is, this guy wouldn't know romance if it bit him in the ass. I ask you, has he ever thrown snowballs at a woman's window and then yelled at her in front of her colleagues? I think not.
All right, let's think about this logically. Donna has terrible taste in men. This is fact. Every guy she has ever been with has either failed to appreciate her, taken advantage of her, or betrayed her. She has terrible taste in men, and she has chosen him, therefore, he must be a gomer.
Only he's not. He flew to Germany after she was in an accident, and I'm pretty damn sure he didn't stop for a beer. He's not going to sell her out to save his own skin. He has nothing to gain from coming up here, professionally or personally. Except her. I frown. The more I think about it, the more I am forced to conclude that Colin the wonder boy is distinctly, distressingly, un-gomerly.
Donna's never going to send him away. He's damn near perfect. Plus he has an Irish accent. She's a sucker for foreign accents.
I'm just going to have to send him away myself. I chew my lip. The trouble is, he isn't likely to leave if I just stop him in the hall and say, "She's my assistant, and she's mine, so stay away from her." The role of the protective boss just doesn't have the sort of clout I'm looking for in this situation. I could go with, "She's my best friend, and she's mine, so stay away from her," but the platonic friend thing wouldn't really sway me if I were him. He seemed ready to duke it out even when he thought maybe she and I were dating, so I don't think, "I'm in love with her, and she's mine, so stay away from her," would do the trick either. I need a good, legitimate reason to demand that he stop pursuing her. One recognized by men everywhere. A legally sanctioned role in her life that would lend that extra authority I'm looking for here.
I sit up suddenly, staring at Donna with new inspiration. "I think we should get married," I blurt out.
She chokes on her juice and then starts sputtering and coughing. I panic and start to smack her on the back. "Donna? Are you all right?"
"Ow!" she cries, and I belatedly realize that smacking someone who has a collapsed lung is probably not a good idea. I yank my hand away as though it's been burned and sit by her bedside helplessly.
She puts her juice down on the tray and glares at me once the coughing has subsided. "Very funny, Josh," she says crossly. "Make the injured girl choke on her drink. Were you hoping to see orange juice come out my nose tubes?"
"No," I say anxiously. "I wasn't trying to be funny."
She looks at me. "You just suggested that we get married, and you weren't trying to be funny," she repeats skeptically. I nod hesitantly. She picks up her morphine drip and examines it closely. "What did they say was in here again?" she asks curiously. "Because seriously, this is some good stuff."
"Donna!" I say, exasperated. "It's not the drugs. You're not hallucinating. I'm really saying what you think I'm saying."
"And what was that again?" she asks.
"That we should get married."
"Who's 'we?'"
I roll my eyes. "You and I."
She laughs and leans back on the bed. "It was even funnier the second time around."
"For the last time, I wasn't trying to be funny! I'm serious," I say, annoyed.
"Josh, what did you eat for lunch?" she asks.
My brow furrows. "A turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee. Why?"
"I think one of the nurses slipped you a mickey. You just said you were serious about you and me getting married," she says, sipping her juice calmly.
"I am serious," I say, frustrated.
"You're crazy," she says, taking a bite of her toast.
"Donna," I begin, but I'm interrupted by the shrill ring of my cell phone from the bedside table. Before I can grab it and throw it out the window, Donna snatches it away and answers it. "Hello," she says. I can't believe it. She answered the phone in the middle of my proposal.
"Hey, CJ," she says cheerfully. "How are you? ...Oh, fine. Josh just proposed to me... Yeah, just now... What do you mean, what did I say? I told him he was out of his mind." She takes another bite of toast. She listens for a moment and then turns bright red. "No, of course I'm not going to... What do you mean, that's what I always– " she breaks off, giving me a nervous glance. She turns slightly away from me. "CJ, I thought we weren't going to... no, you can't speak to Josh. Because... because... the phone is dying," she says desperately. "You're cutting out," she adds loudly. "I can't hear you, CJ. I'll call you later," she says hastily, slamming the phone shut and placing it on the stool on the opposite side of the bed from me.
"So what did CJ have to say?" I ask curiously.
She avoids my gaze. "Oh, you know, the usual. Danny is annoying, Congress is demanding action, the President is considering options, blah, blah, blah."
I give up. "Okay. So..."
She looks at me blankly. "So what?"
"Are you going to answer me?" I ask.
"I don't recall you asking me a question," she says, nervously tearing her toast into bits.
"I did," I insist.
"No, you really didn't," she counters. "It was more of a statement. A declarative statement. Not a question."
"Fine. Are you going to respond to my statement?" I demand.
"What was it again?" she says apprehensively.
"That you and I should get married," I say impatiently.
"That statement? Which you are serious about?" she says, putting the toast down on the tray.
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Oh?" I say incredulously. "I say we should get married, and that's all the response I get? Oh?"
"I also said you were crazy," she says helpfully.
"Donna," I growl. "I'm serious about this."
"What brought this on?" she asks curiously. "Are you having a midlife crisis?"
"No!" I say. "I'm not having a midlife crisis."
"Then why?"
"Because I don't want Heathcliff to rip your bodice!" I cry desperately.
"Okay, you know I don't actually wear a bodice, right?" she asks.
"I don't want him to ever find out if you wear a bodice or not," I growl.
"That's a terrible reason," she says.
"All the same," I grouse, "I don't think there should be any bodice-ripping." Unless it's by me. Once she's feeling better.
"Josh, have you ever proposed before?" she asks, picking up one of the pieces of toast and popping it into her mouth.
"No," I say, exasperated.
"Well, you really suck at it."
My brow furrows. "How can you suck at proposing? I mean, there's the question, and the answer, and that's pretty much it, right?"
She shakes her head. "No. There are lots of ways of proposing badly, and you've managed to do it in just about every way imaginable."
"Hey!" I say, offended. "What's so bad about the way I proposed?"
She takes another sip of her juice. "You really want to know?"
"Yes."
"Well, we'll leave aside the fact that we're not dating, have never dated in the past, and that you've never said anything to me that would indicate you had any interest in pursuing a serious romantic relationship with me, and skip straight to the issue of your timing."
"My timing?" I repeat. I think it's perfect timing. I ask, and she answers just in time for Mr. Lucky Charms to catch the next plane to Dublin.
"Yes," she says. "Your timing sucks. I've just met someone who seems to really care about me, who is good and kind and smart, and then you just sit down and announce we should get married. That puts me in an awkward position, Josh. Theoretically, what would I tell Colin? Oh, thanks for making this huge romantic gesture by flying to Germany to visit me in the hospital, I appreciate you sitting by my bedside every day to cheer me up, and you're a really good kisser, by the way, I'm marrying my boss, see you around?"
"Yes?" I offer nervously. He's a good kisser? I fucking hate Heathcliff.
"I can't do that!" she cries. "That's so unfair to him. He'd think I've been leading him on this whole time."
"So what?"
She glares at me. "So, I'm not the sort of person who would do that. He'd think we've been involved and that I lied to him. He'd think that I used him and cheated on you. I wouldn't do that," she repeats, looking genuinely hurt.
"Of course you wouldn't," I say automatically. "But what does it matter if he thinks that?"
She looks pissed. "Because it would hurt him, Josh! And I like him. I don't want him to think that I'm the sort of woman who would cheat on a guy I was seeing. I don't want him to think badly of me."
Okay, well, I don't want to talk more about Donna liking Colin and valuing his opinion of her. Let's go back to why I'm bad at proposing. "So, my timing's bad. Anything else?"
"Oh, boy, let me count the ways," she says. "Your location. The hospital is the least romantic place in the world."
"Not the least romantic," I protest.
She glares at me. "Tell me of a place less romantic than a building associated with pain and death."
Well, okay. "But– "
"And besides, if we really got engaged, we would want to do some celebratory kissing, right?"
Hell yes. "This would be a problem?" I congratulate myself on uttering a complete sentence, seeing as my brain took a major detour the second she mentioned kissing. Kissing Donna. Reason enough to follow through with this idea.
"I'm not kissing you for the first time with nose tubes attached to my face."
The first time. As in one of many. I grin. "You're going to kiss me?" For the rest of my life?
"No."
Damn.
"That's not even the point, though," she continues. "The hospital bedside, Josh? Could you be any more clichéd?"
"Uh..."
"Even if it weren't a cliché, it would still be the worst possible place to propose."
I think she's exaggerating. I can think of plenty of worse places to propose. I open my mouth to protest, but she ignores me and barrels ahead. "I mean, really, the hospital bedside? I almost died. Emotions are high. I'm in an incredible amount of pain. I'm still not entirely certain that narcotics aren't responsible for this entire conversation," she says, glancing down at the morphine drip.
"Of course emotions are high!" I explode. "You almost died!"
She nods. "Exactly. That's why proposing in a hospital room is a bad idea. Feelings are heightened, you say things you wouldn't normally say in the cold light of day. The proposal isn't credible."
I feel my blood pressure rising and try to stop myself from getting angry. It's not working. "You're saying my proposal isn't credible?"
She juts out her chin in that way that means I'm being stupid and that she's annoyed at me for missing her point, which she believes to be crystal clear. "Yes. There's no background for it."
"Six years, Donnatella," I remind her. "Most people would say that was plenty of background."
"I'm talking about how there was no preface to the proposal. One minute you're glaring at Colin, the next minute you're ordering me to eat toast, and a minute after that, you announce we should get married. Obviously, something's going through your mind that I don't understand, but you don't try to help me understand, you just announce you want to get married and expect an answer without giving any explanation," she says. "You can't expect me to believe you're actually serious."
"Why not?" I ask, frustrated.
She shakes her head. "You can't propose on an impulse. You have to have thought about it, and prepared for it."
If only she knew. "I have," I say simply.
She raises her eyebrows. "Oh? Do you have a ring in your pocket? Cause I don't see one."
"Okay, so I didn't get around to that one thing," I concede.
"That's exactly my point. But anyway, the main thing is, you can't just throw it out there with no explanation. You have to lead up to it," she explains.
"Lead up to it?" I repeat.
"Yes," she says. Huh. "For example," she continues, "if I were going to make the foolish mistake of proposing to you, I would say something like, 'Josh, you and I have known each other a long time. Despite your insufferable arrogance and complete lack of civility, over the years, I seem to have, completely against my will, you understand, become rather fond of you. You're a complete slob and your boorish manners drive me crazy sometimes, but I know you need me desperately and I've managed to put up with you pretty well so far, so, I suppose, if you were similarly inclined, I would not be completely averse to the idea of entering a legally sanctioned union with you."
"Donna, you insulted me like five times in three sentences," I point out. "Are you saying I should pepper my proposal with insults?"
"No," she says. "I was tailoring the proposal to suit your personality. If I proposed to you seriously, you'd use anything nice I said against me for the rest of our lives."
"No, I wouldn't," I argue.
"Yes, you would," she says. "If I complimented you, and we got into an argument the next day, you'd just give me that insufferable smirk of yours and say, 'That's not what you said last night.'"
"I– " I try to interrupt her, but she keeps speaking over me. "It's up to me to keep your over-inflated ego in check. I can't tell you what I really think of you, or your ego would become completely unmanageable."
"Hey," I say, insulted. "I resent that."
"Yeah, well, like I care a lot about that," she sniffs.
"Still, I don't think that was such a great proposal," I say.
She shrugs. "Hey, it's better than 'eat your toast, let's get hitched.'"
"Okay, well, maybe you could pretend that my arrogance is all an effort to disguise my incredible fear of rejection, and, you know, give me another example upon which I might model an acceptable proposal," I suggest.
"Is this a trick?" she asks suspiciously.
"No," I say.
"I don't believe you," she says.
"Donna, please?" I plead. I give her my best puppy dog face. She can't resist my puppy dog face.
She glances at me and I see her resolve melt a little. "Fine," she says.
I wait expectantly.
"Now?" she says, exasperated.
"Yes," I say, not letting up on the puppy face.
She looks over at me and sighs. "Okay, but this is just an example. For educational purposes. Nothing I say should be construed to mean that I don't consider you deranged at this moment. She puts her juice down and takes my hand in hers, looking deep into my eyes. I swallow. "Joshua," she begins. "You and I have known each other a long time."
"You said that before," I say.
She glares at me. "You and I have known each other a long time," she repeats. "I've seen you tired, cranky, happy, sad, smug, and frustrated. After all I've seen of you, there are a few certain truths I've come to discover about you. Most people you meet are taken aback by your brash exterior, you didn't fool me for one minute. I knew you had a warm and giving heart the first moment I met you. As the years have passed, I've spent more time with you than anyone else in the world. I've watched the way you care for your friends, the way you work so hard, so passionately, for the people of the United States, and the way you never accept less than the best from yourself or anyone around you. I've seen the way you fight for the people of our country, and I am so proud to know you; to be a part of your work; to call you my friend."
She swallows. "And I've seen you afraid." I hold my breath, unwilling to move lest she stop. She goes on, her voice a little unsteady. "I've seen you afraid for your life, your job, your friends, and for your sanity. But even when you are afraid, you keep fighting for what's good and right, and watching out for your friends, and making me smile. So when all is said and done, I don't think anything would make me happier than if you told me I would see you, and laugh with you, every day for the rest of my life," she finishes hesitantly. She looks away. "Hypothetically, of course."
"That was pretty good," I say. "Maybe you should just propose to me."
She glares at me. "I don't think so."
"Fine," I say. I slide out of my chair so I'm kneeling on the floor by her side.
"What are you doing?" she asks, alarmed. "Get up!"
I ignore her. "Donnatella Moss," I begin. Damn, this linoleum is uncomfortable. Once I get myself settled, I try to look deep into her eyes, but she's staring past me with an expression of horror frozen on her face. I turn around to see what could be so important that she would ignore this classic romantic gesture in the middle of my second proposal, and what I see makes me want to poke my eyeballs out.
Heathcliff is back. He's standing awkwardly in the doorway with a sheepish look on his face, and Donna is staring at him in shock. Neither of them is looking at me, which is a good thing, because I'm sure I look like an absolute idiot on the floor over here.
"Uh, hi," he says. Donna closes her eyes in mortification."Sorry, er– I left my coat. I thought I should say something... now, rather than... later," he says, glancing at me.
No, no, no. This isn't happening to me. He's not going to make a play for her hand, or something, is he? That's the sort of thing I would imagine a bodice-ripper capable of. Although we would look pretty ridiculous both kneeling next to a hospital bed (which, I might add, happens to be taller than a standard bed, so my nose is just about even with it, making it so I can hardly see over the damn thing).
He crosses to Donna's other side and puts his hand on her shoulder. Great, now he's touching her while I'm paralyzed down here with my knee slowly swelling to the size of a grapefruit on this floor made out of concrete. "Donna," he says. She looks up at him and he gives her a little smile. "Don't worry about it. You're a great girl, and I'm glad I got to meet you. Really. I wish you the best of luck."
"Thank you, Colin," she whispers.
He looks over at me. "Josh," he begins. He opens his mouth to continue, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head. "Never mind."
He leaves, and Donna stares after him, shell-shocked. I clear my throat, trying to bring her attention back to me and my inflamed kneecap.
Her gaze slides back to me, and I bite back a satisfied grin. "Oh, my God," she says. Finally, she realizes the significance of my position.
"Donna," I begin.
"I can't believe this," she interrupts. "I just got dumped in a hospital room. This could only happen to me."
"Excuse me?" I say, irritated. "Is that what you're focusing on here? I'm trying to say something."
She looks over at me. "Josh, get up. You're going to hurt your knees."
"No," I say stubbornly. We're way past pain and into agony here, but I'm not budging. "Donna, I– "
A nurse barges in carrying the largest syringe known to man. "Time for your blood test," she says cheerfully.
"Josh, do you need to step outside?" Donna asks. "I know you're afraid of needles."
"No. I'm staying," I say through gritted teeth. "I need you to hear me out. Donna, please marry me. I– "
Donna nudges the nurse. "Can you sedate him? He keeps proposing."
The nurse plunges the world's biggest syringe deep, deep into the flesh of Donna's arm. Oh God. I think I'm going to faint. She glances over at me. "I don't think I'm going to need to sedate him, honey. He looks like he's going to pass out in about five seconds."
No. I can do this. I will ignore the lightheadedness, and push away the dark shadows at the edge of my vision.
I chance cracking open my eyes, only to see the giant syringe filling up with Donna's blood. It's okay, though. I don't think I'm going to pass out anymore. The ravaging pain in my knee is keeping me firmly connected to reality.
I clench my teeth and wait for the nurse to leave. "Donna," I say raggedly. I honestly can't tell at this point if it's out of emotion or agony.
Geez, she looks kind of pale. I inch forward on my knee til I'm right next to the edge of the bed and take her hand. "Donna?" I say worriedly.
She looks down at me and smiles weakly. "Yeah."
I press her hand to my face. "You okay?"
"I'm all right," she promises.
"I don't think much of all this hospital stuff," I inform her.
"Yet, you're here," she says tiredly.
"I'm here," I echo.
She closes her eyes.
"Donna," I whisper.
"Hmm?"
"Do you think you're up for one more proposal before you go to sleep?" I say softly.
"Mm. I guess so," she murmurs. "Could you make it quick?"
"Donna, I love you," I whisper. Her eyes slowly open and she looks at me, startled, but still drowsy. The effect is surprisingly beautiful. "I love you so much I'm kneeling on this horrible cold floor in a hospital."
The quiet stretches out between us, and I suddenly see it as a space that must be filled; our separation a physical obstacle I must overcome to unite us.
"I've loved you forever," I breathe, my eyes riveted to her face. " God, I love– " everything. "– How you make fun of me. I love how excited you get when you learn something new. I love how you always make me smile with your Ingrid Bergman impression. I love how you take no prisoners when someone or something threatens someone you love. I love how you're ten times smarter than half the people in Congress, but you show respect and grace to everyone you meet.
"I can't remember a time anymore when I haven't loved you. I've incorporated you into all my memories. The main thing I used to remember about the fire was how scared I was to be alone, but now when I think of it, the fear is dulled because I remember it as though you were there with me, holding my hand to comfort me. I remember my law school graduation with you clapping with the audience and smiling at me. I even remember my father's funeral as though you were there like you wanted to be, when I stupidly told you to stay in Illinois. "
I close my eyes. "You have... the most amazing smile. Do you have any idea how beautiful your smile is? It's heart-stopping. I'm serious. When you give me one of those full, thousand-watt Donnatella smiles, my heart literally skips a beat. And then you have another smile that's just for me, when I've managed to do something right for a change, and you don't want me to know how much I've pleased you. If you ever gave that smile to another guy, I think I would rip his heart out. Nothing in the world makes me prouder than when you smile like that at me."
I turn my head and press a kiss to her palm. "I never used to understand the point of this whole down on one knee thing," I tell her, looking up at her. "But I get it now. It's a physical expression of power. Donna, I am humbled before you. I'm kneeling here completely at your mercy. If you say no, I'll never get over it. Please tell me you'll marry me."
She closes her eyes. "Okay."
Okay?
I poke her in the arm. "Donna," I whisper loudly.
"What?" she asks, annoyed.
"Did you just say yes?"
"Uh-huh."
I look at her closely. She's talking, but her eyes are closed and for all I know she could be talking in her sleep. "Are you going to remember this in the morning?" I ask suspiciously.
"Don't know," she says sleepily.
"Donna," I hiss. "This is a fairly important question. How am I going to make sure you remember it?"
She yawns. "Ask me again."
"Ask again?" I repeat doubtfully.
"A year from now," she murmurs, eyes still closed. "Ask again a year from now, when I'm fully mobile and don't have nose tubes attached to my face."
"A year?" I say, crestfallen. "What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"
"Ask me on a date."
A date. I digest this information. Ask Donna on a date. I think I can do that. "What kind of date do you want to go on?"
"A nice one."
That's so not helpful. "Could you be a little more specific? What would make a date nice for you?"
She frowns a little. "No bellowing. Bellow-free dates are nice. And no nose tubes."
I stroke the back of her hand. "You set some pretty high standards, there, Donnatella."
"I know..." she says.
I reach out and touch her hair. "What would you want to do on this date, Donna?"
"Go to dinner. Go dancing. Tie your bow tie," she murmurs.
I smirk despite myself. "Don't you mean untie it?"
"Josh," she sighs, and I gaze at her tenderly. She looks about ninety-nine percent asleep, and I'm pretty sure she's not listening to me anymore, but that's okay, because I know she'll wake up again this time, and I'll have plenty of time to tease her tomorrow.
"Sleep, Donnatella," I tell her. I kiss the palm of her hand and stand up. I scoot the chair next to her bed closer and pause to kiss her on the forehead before sitting down. I grab a magazine and settle myself in for a long night. I'll guard her sleep for now, but tomorrow, I've got something to ask her. She may have agreed to the marriage thing, but I still need an answer on the whole date issue, and I'm staying right here until I get one.
