AUTHOR: Kaya

EMAIL: deessedelune@yahoo.com (I love feedback!)

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Until Noel.

ARCHIVE: Consider it homeless. Wanna give it a home? Just email me.

DISCLAIMER: Don't own them. Never plan to do so. Just wanted to
play.

Honestly? I am not in the mood for this.

What's so special about today, anyway? So it's the end of another
year. If people would only do their math correctly, it is the
actual beginning of the millennium. The real millennium, so to
speak.

But why would the people of the world listen to a White House
assistant? Though in my opinion, I'm not just any assistant. I'm
the Deputy Deputy Chief of Staff.

Groan.

Josh was right. That did suck.

Enough digression.

So I have a theory about this whole "new year" thing. I think it's
just an excuse for couples, especially those that are sickeningly in
love, to dress up, come out and rub their goo-goo eyes and other
forms of public displays of affection on those unfortunate love
recluses.

And for those poor souls, they are compelled to play along: dress up,
come out and be part of the festivities. But, when midnight strikes,
the real dividing factor between those who are coupled up and those
who are alone become evident. Sickeningly evident.

Sickening. Have I used that word already? Well, it's alright,
because it is the perfect word to describe the tradition. Sickening.

Sadly, here I am, a member of the International Love Recluse Club,
standing opposite her own reflection in a White House restroom.
Granted, I do look good.

This dress does look good. I didn't return it after all. Not that
it had anything to do with Josh's compliment.

It won't help, though. Four hours from now, it will still be
judgment night.

Unless a miracle happens quickly…

Unlikely.

So I will just take that therapeutic deep breath and step out of this
restroom. Walk down the halls to the ballroom where everyone in the
staff, recluses and couples, is waiting. Have fun and enjoy myself.
When midnight comes, just be happy that you're with friends.

Or maybe not.

Okay, move on to plan B. That would be forcing myself to go to the
party, because I have to. Deputy Downer is making me, because misery
loves company.

To think, he is beyond ten years of age. Plus his argument just
warranted a banter, didn't it? I did put up a fight for a little
while, but I gave in. Somehow, something in me was telling me to
go. I had nothing else planned, so why not?

That brings me back to where I am. A White House restroom. Wishing
that I were home. Wishing that a miracle would happen.

I bet you ten times what this dress is worth that no one else in this
House is wishing the same things I am.