You don't understand, because when have you ever understood a thing the man has done? Or not done.

It's a lie, though. You know him better than you know yourself, which is why, after the courage of two glasses of wine, you'd propositioned him with a piece of brass in a cheap, beige envelope.

You'd thought, hoped, that after the kiss that morning he'd be thinking like you. Despite the awkwardness, and his nervous, uncomfortable apology, you'd had a long time to think about it and come to the conclusion, with the help of a few people, that the next step had to be taken - one way or the other.

You'd made it perfectly, utterly, undeniably clear that you wanted him to pick up the key and come to your room. You couldn't have been clearer if you'd actually said those words to his face.

"Come up to my room, Josh, and we can..."

It was an invitation to... something... whatever.

That isn't the point now. The point is you'd caught his eye and pushed your key towards him as you held his gaze. It was definitely clear. You stood and walked away, leaving the decision to follow to him. You told yourself not to look back, and you didn't - just shook the hand of a random politico, pushed open the glass door of the hotel and walked inside.

And then you heard your name being called and you'd turned, and Edie had handed you the envelope. She said you'd forgotten your key as she pressed it into your hand, not saying if Josh had given it to her. Didn't mention him at all.

And your heart had thumped so loudly that you were sure she could hear it but you'd taken the returned invitation silently and then, ignoring your vow to not to look back...

You look at him.

His face, lit by the softly glowing garden lights, is inscrutable. For the first time in your life, you have no idea what he's thinking.

You can't read him. You don't know him.

He gives you a quick smile. Why? You don't know. You don't know. You have no idea if he told Edie to give the key to you but you don't see any other reason for it. And nothing you can do about it because you can't go back and ask him, and you let out the breath you've been holding and spin on your heel.

Edie's still talking as you both head for the elevator. Reviewing the day. Isn't it great about the tied polls? Wonder what the President really wanted with the Congressman? Isn't this a nice hotel, so much better than the one the night before?

The hotel the night before was the one that you and Josh had kissed in this morning. Room eight eleven. Yeah, you're not going to forget that hotel any time soon.

She follows you into the elevator as she continues still talking about things that you have absolutely no interest in, and you lean against the wall, eyes closed, trying to block out her noise. It a few seconds before she realizes that you're not responding to her rambles, and she asks if you're okay.

You open your eyes and smile tiredly at her. It's been a long day. You got up so early. Lots of exciting things have happened today. The tied polls. Bono. Too much alcohol. Not enough food.

The elevator arrives at your floor and you walk down the hall. She accepts your excuses and leaves you at your room, disappearing into the one next door with a smile and a good night.

You fit the key into the lock, push open the door, and latch it behind you. The room is breezy from the open window and you drop your bag on the bed and close it, resting your forehead on the glass to cool your burning skin.

It doesn't matter, you tell yourself. It doesn't matter.

You repeat it to yourself a few more times then close the drapes and sit cross legged on the bed, retrieving your diary from the nightstand to scribble random lines in it. General stuff about the day. The polls. Bono.

You suck on the end of the pen, wondering if you should write the other things. Thing.

The kiss.

You can't bring yourself to do it.

You just can't.

You go into great detail about so many things in your life but you can't write about that morning. Can't describe how you felt when his lips tasted yours, when his hands fluttered lightly over your jaw, when he touched your breast, when you felt his... pressing against your belly.

How do you find the words to write about the kiss, how it felt so... right. How you thought it was the beginning of your life. How you wanted more and didn't think you wouldn't get more. How you were burning alive, and falling even deeper. Everything.

You can't write that, although it doesn't matter really, because you know you'll never forget that kiss.

But as you stare at the blank, lined page, you know you have to write something. Just to have it there. If it's in ink then it really happened and it's not just your imagination playing tricks on your lonely mind.

Your pen scrawls several short words. Enough for you to remember everything, enough to bring it all back when you're old and grey and reading your diaries to your great grandchildren.

His great grandchildren.

No. You won't let yourself think like that. You never asked for marriage, never asked for children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. The house with the picket fence. The van with the car seats and the cracker crumbs smushed into the upholstery. The dog. The cat. You didn't ask him for that.

You asked him to come to you room and that was all.

With a sigh, you snap the notebook shut, and fall backwards onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. You like the color. Pale cream. Hard to keep clean but then how does a ceiling get dirty anyway?

You think maybe you're drunk. Then you remember you're half Irish and can drink anyone under the table, so two glasses of wine would hardly have made a dent in your ability to think rationally. And you'd decided to do this before you'd imbibed so you really can't blame that.

But there has to be something, doesn't there? A reason why you had brazenly pushed the key towards him. This can't be blamed on alcohol, can't be a spur of the moment thing. There has to be some sort of reason.

There's a real reason why you'd gone to the concierge earlier that evening and asked for another key. A reason why you'd lied, saying you'd misplaced the original one somewhere at the White House.

And he'd trusted your excuse. He knew you - everyone knew you - so if you said you'd lost the key, you'd lost the key and were certainly not planning to give it to your ex boss/current boss/man you'd had an odd moment with/man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

Yes. There's a reason. You wanted Josh to come to you. You didn't want to have to go to him. For once in your life, you didn't want to be the one chasing after the man. You wanted to let him know you were available should he choose to visit but that it was definitely for him to decide.

Problem is, now you think that you thought entirely too much about the things that had happened today. Every idle comment, every look, every touch. You analyzed the whole day and then asked for a spare key.

And after the spare key dance of deception, you'd eaten a very nice dinner, had some very nice conversation with your colleagues, and a very enjoyable gossip session in the hotel's restaurant garden.

Your hand had fluttered over the envelope in your bag, hovering between yes and no. Do it or forget it. With a spurt of bravery - or stupidity in hindsight - you'd taken it out, your fingers playing with it as you waited.

Josh had arrived, you'd smiled, and there was general light hearted banter between everyone. And he'd sat down and looked at you, eyes flicking away from the others, catching your gaze for a half a second. And your whole being had said yes.

And you pushed the key towards him and his eyes understood, and you'd taken a final swig of white wine, made your excuses, and left.

This morning, when your mind cried yes, and your body screamed please, you knew his was saying the same thing. You thought you'd found your future.

This ridiculous idea of giving him your key only meant that you were ready for more. The key told him it wasn't the end for you. That you wanted there to be an 'us'.

Maybe a piece of brass couldn't convey those words but your eyes did and he read them, and read your mind because he could always do that.

Except... you couldn't read his before so maybe... maybe... he can't read you anymore. Maybe he didn't understand. Maybe he...

No. He must have known. It's not as though you were that cryptic. Your key pushed towards him - and who else's key would it be - without words? With that look in your eyes, and a matching one in his?

No. He knew. Unless he had a traumatic blow to the head sometime today that rendered him incapable of intelligent reasoning, he knew. He knows.

But he's not here. And you have no idea what to do now. You're confused and tired, and you just want to go to sleep.

With a sigh, you push yourself off the bed and head into the bathroom. Your fingers find it difficult to open one of the little disposable packets of face wipes that you carry with you on the road, but you get it eventually, and scrub the makeup - and the day - from your pores.

You throw the used wipe into the trash and stare at yourself in the mirror. Your face is pink and shiny. Clean and empty of all emotion.

How good you are at this sometimes. No one can read you when you look like this. Impassively blank.

He knows this face.

He knows it all.

He knows you.

No matter what happened tonight, Josh knows you.

You brush your teeth, drop your clothes untidily on the floor because you don't care, pull on a pair of shorts and a t shirt, and flop back onto the bed.

The realization that he's the only man you'll ever want to spend the rest of your life with won't leave you, no matter how much you try to hide it. The man you've loved almost as long as you've known him but never admitted to yourself, refused to believe it as anything more than an Eliza Doolittle school girl crush.

He listens to your suggestions, he trusts your decisions, he makes you so sure of yourself and yet so off balance sometimes. He took you as a lump of clay and shaped you with your help.

And you love him. Not just for that, but for everything. The good, the bad, the ugly. And in politics, you get a lot of ugly.

Yes. Of course you love him. Of course you do - after the kiss that morning you realized that it's always been him but you've always pushed it away and, had you not kissed, you could have gone on denying, hiding, ignoring the promptings of your heart and the parts of your head that continuously screamed him at you.

The parts that were always drowned out by the parts that roared not him because it was wrong.

But it's not wrong, it's not taboo, it's not inappropriate. It is what it is. Two people who saw each other through the worst times of their lives, who celebrated the best times together.

Two people who clung to each other for support, for friendship. Two people who fell in love long before they realized it and when they did, refused to admit it for unexplainable reasons.

It might have gone on that way, both of you circling the runway unable to land, but then he kissed you. And you kissed him back, felt his fingers on your skin, his body hard and hot against yours.

And you'd thought that... that was it. Finally. You were both right there in the same place, and you'd be able to move on together.

So even though you reassured him that morning that it was nothing, you'd spoken to Will, awkwardly testing the idea of a relationship. When CJ seemed so pleased for you, the bold decision to invite him to your room had sprung into your mind.

Because it isn't nothing for you. It's not over. You don't want it to be over and refuse to believe it will be until he sits you down and breaks your heart with the 'it's not going to happen' discussion. But you know he won't do that because he's entirely too emotionally... stunted.

When you'd caught his eye at least a hundred times that day and he'd pretended he wasn't staring at you, you knew that it couldn't be nothing for him. Couldn't. You've been wrong about men your entire life, but never about him. So... you got... brave.

Where has all your bravery gone now? You don't know why you can't just press the speed dial on your cell and ask him to come to your room.

But you can't. It's too late. You're too tired. It's not... right anymore. He has to come to you, now more than ever. You can't chase after him. You're not going to beg him to love you.

You lie awake, your body crying out to be allowed to sleep, as your mind continues to relive the morning, the day, the night. The invitation. The rejection. The hope that won't die, the hope you won't allow to die, that maybe he'll swallow whatever pride, or fear, or discomfort he's feeling and knock on your door.

Perhaps a self induced orgasm might relax you enough to be able to sleep. But you know the face you picture when your fingers slide between your legs will be his. Now that you know what he tastes like, what his hand on your breast feels like, what his... feels like pushed into your belly, it'll be too real for you and you won't be able to face him in the morning.

You give up on the idea and roll over and stare at the door. You can't switch your brain off and you can't switch your cell phone off either. And there's no knock on the door and, when you check your cell for the umpteenth time, you realize that you're becoming one of 'those women'.

You were one of 'those women' before and instantly you hate him for sending you back to that time and place where your desire to have a man robbed you of your self esteem.

And then... you laugh. A horribly keening, half choke of laughter that segues into loud, painful sobs that rack your body and make you curl into a tiny ball on the bed to try and keep all the agony inside.

Tomorrow you'll have to smile and offer suggestions, and listen to him, eat lunch with him, argue, joke, pretend nothing has happened and that you're the same as always.

Pretending everything is fine because that's what you do now when you're avoiding any emotions deeper than the surface.

And the day after tomorrow you have to be on a plane, but he won't be with you so it'll be easier to pretend nothing has happened. That you're a cool, calm, collected professional who hasn't had the world given to her and then taken away.

God. It's all too dramatic for you.

You love him but you're not going to let him hurt you. You're past all that now. It'll be hard, but you know you can do it and you smile to yourself and close your eyes.

Your hand gropes for the cell phone and you switch it off, and drag the rumpled comforter around you and fall asleep quickly, every fiber of your being exhausted from too much and yet not enough.

And every fiber of your being knowing that, even though it might take awhile, you'll be able to move on alone if he won't move on with you.