Noble Sun Chapter 2
DISCLAIMER: I feel that I need to add more - yeah, I don’t own Kalinda and Alicia and the Good Wife. I don’t make money out of this. No copyright infringement intended, and all that jazz.
NOTE: Many thanks to my non-writer friend, Nik, who has endured my ceaseless calls (even in the wee hours of the night) just so I can pick her brains about plot decisions.
Nothing had ever made Kalinda frightened; her confidence was as sure and true as the rotation of the earth on its axis causing night and day. Once upon a time, she almost kissed the barrel of a gun (and her life goodbye) without batting an eyelash. Had she been placed on a polygraph then, the tracing would not have shown a hint of worry.
That is why Kalinda is rattled that a dream can now unhinge her so much.
Last night, she dreamt about beautiful and fragile Alicia. Unlike her usual dreams that end up dampening her underpants, this came close to what most would consider a nightmare - but not quite for her.
In her dream, Alicia was wearing a gray suit with white piping and a look that was mostly intent but with undertones of seduction. Just when she was about to close the distance between their lips, Alicia whispered.
I know your secret, Leela. You slept with my husband.
Alicia’s smirk widened until her face was enveloped by it. Her form disintegrated into a million particles; the force sending Kalinda spiraling into nothingness.
She woke up bathed in sweat that morning.
In her breakfast coffee, she could taste the regret of having done the deed. At that time, it seemed insignificant as she had slept casually with other people for reasons she couldn’t quite rationalize. She didn’t know that the one thing she could account for would be the one thing that’d break her.
She threw the remaining coffee into the sink sloppily and proceeded to get dressed. As she zipped her boots up, she prayed to the gods she used to never believe in that she could hide the secret along with the disappearance of her skin into the leather.
---
Work temporarily brought back her swagger as she tried to pry information from an infatuated nurse.
Maybe I am exaggerating. Maybe I am just becoming a worrywart.
A small sigh escapes from her lips as she enters her office. The lack of clutter and the almost-sterile look of her (im)personal space bothers her more. Perhaps it is the lack of visual distractions that makes her remember her short encounter with Alicia.
She slumps onto her chair and winces - both from the searing pain of having sat on a stray pen and the memory of the cold shoulder Alicia gave her earlier.
Or maybe I am not exaggerating.
Shifting to her side to remove the pen poking at her behind, she almost jumps as she sees in her periphery, Alicia’s well-made-up face peeping in her office. Like some sort of apparition, the strength of mind summoning the object of concentration, the woman looks at her not recognizing the surprise the sudden presence caused.
Kalinda raises her perfectly sculpted eyebrows in muted curiosity.
“Tequila after work?”
Maybe I am just exaggerating. She tilts her head carefully, studying the air that hung about Alicia’s mouth, as though she can assess the sincerity of the invitation.
“Having a tough day?” she opts to ask instead.
The answer did not come instantly. There was first a weighing of the question apparent in the shifting of Alicia’s eyes sideways for three even breaths.
“Somewhat,” is the answer that came.
“Sure. I just need to wrap up something first…”
“I’ll meet you there,” Alicia cuts her off with a mixture of relief and surreptitious dismissal. She gives Kalinda a bright smile before she turns around and says, “Gotta get back to work,” voice trailing off.
Kalinda is now smiling, quite assured for the moment.
I WAS exaggerating.
The rest of the day continued without a hitch.
---
There are perhaps a dozen pubs in the area, but they have always frequented one in particular. Perhaps it is because the place is well-lit. Perhaps because it has become less populated in the course of their friendship, making it more conducive to private conversations about their cases. They used to joke that they brought a curse with them so the pub can be their second office.
They both took their joke seriously: they have, no matter how much they deny, made up for the lack of customers in their almost-daily visits and the six-or-more shots they always have.
Kalinda walks in, quite proud that she is only thirty minutes late. Less than an hour ago, Alicia knocked at her office saying she was leaving. “The usual,” was all the instruction Alicia could afford to leave as she was talking to someone over the phone. Kalinda nodded her agreement, respectful of whatever conversation Alicia was having.
“Tough day indeed,” Kalinda quips as she walks up to Alicia. She sees the three empty shot glasses in front of Alicia, and three full ones, quite possibly waiting for her.
“You have to make up for lost… time,” Alicia points towards the glasses.
“Have plans of killing me?”
“That’s the idea,” Alicia’s smile caused the cocoons inside Kalinda’s stomach to metamorphose into restless butterflies flitting excitedly as the suggestion of the remark (made perhaps because of the alcohol the other woman consumed or her own overactive imagination) sinks in.
She reaches out for the first shot and downs it with one courageous gulp. She quickly follows it up with the second one, intent on making the butterflies drunk, so she can function once more.
“You want to die tonight.” Alicia observes, following her previous allusion.
“No,” she removes the lime from her mouth. “Just thirsty.”
“Ah. Then maybe you need something to wet your throat.”
The butterflies flutter with more energy. She reaches for her third shot and signals the bartender for two more before she downs the liquor. The burning in her mouth and the trail it left in its aftermath keep her from falling off her seat, as she is enveloped by the first hint of drunkenness.
“Careful there. I don’t want you dead. Not tonight.”
She coughs as the juice from the second lime she’s sucking dry goes down wrong.
“I thought you wanted me dead,” she smiles to herself. “I just made up for lost time,” she sniffs as she turns to Alicia. “So, how was court? Will asked me to dig deeper into the good doctor’s record - did you find the information useful?” She shifts to the case they have just wrapped up. Thanks to Alicia’s observant eye (which she probably took from Kalinda), they discovered inconsistencies about the manner in which the doctor grants organ donation recommendation and approval. Although it began as a hunch, it was strengthened by Kalinda’s discovery that the same doctor orders radiographic scans more than once on patients he refused for organ transplantation.
This, of course, is a relatively trivial conversation - the most accessible topic Kalinda can shift to, so as to avoid being inebriated before nine. She knows, if the conversation continues the way it started, she’d be digging and subsequently, burying herself in a hole deep enough to entomb the entire area 51 secrets in. She also knows that Alicia will not be able to resist talking about the case.
She was right. They talked for two straight hours with just four more shots each sans the revival of the butterflies now silently sleeping in her stomach.
A joke cracked later on, and she breaks into a coughing fit as a few drops of tequila (once again) went down the wrong way. Kalinda laughs and coughs, taken completely by the torture of not being able to truly enjoy the joke and the spasm in her trachea. Spittle dribbling at the side of her mouth, she takes a few calming breaths to clear her airway.
As she turns to Alicia, she feels the other woman’s hand cupping her chin, thumb lightly swiping her saliva away.
Swipe turning into a caress, Alicia resumes the talk, “I told you, I don’t want you to die yet.” Her hand lingers on her face much beyond the friendly few seconds.
The butterflies stir afresh.
---
Three more shots consumed in thirty minutes (a single one for Alicia) and she walks out of the pub with unsteady legs. A cab passed by, but in her state, her reflexes aren’t quick enough to hail it.
The street is empty, save for a couple of cars parked strategically under lampposts, effectively dimming most parts of 9th street. She lets her eyes adjust - the stark contrast of the well-lit bar against the darkness of the outside disorients her.
Her confusion grows as she feels Alicia’s hand grabbing her arm. She almost loses her balance as she is turned sharply towards the demanding pull. The only thing that breaks her fall is the soft lips that hungrily meet hers. If it were not for the slight pressure (and suction) coming from the other’s mouth, she would’ve dismissed it as an awkward accident.
She knows it is not the tequila that commands her. In a heartbeat, she abandons any reasonable argument with herself before it even starts. All she is aware of is the spinning in her head punctuated by the awakening of the butterflies in her stomach. The experience is beyond impossible, but she meets Alicia’s lips nonetheless. The passion with which her lips and mouth are crashing down on the well-kissed woman rouse the gods - such intensity is reserved only for creation.
The older woman’s mouth opens as she deepens the kiss. Euphoria takes over as she feels the quickening of breath and hears the escaping of stifled moans from the person she is assaulting with the sweetest kisses. The headiness heightens as she feels Alicia pulling her closer as though it were possible with their clothes on. Her balance wavers as the taller woman clings to her for dear life, or desire for satisfaction.
Her tongue darts about Alicia’s mouth, each flick becomes a silent prayer that is balancing between a plea to stop before she loses it and an encouragement to not stop so that she does lose it. The seesaw tilts dangerously close to the latter as she feels the other woman’s legs parting followed by an incredibly hot center rubbing the length of her upper thigh. The initially barely discernable dampness gradually increases as the slithering and gyrating become more rhythmical. Her hands start to dance on Alicia’s midsection, fingers playing the ivories of the woman’s abdomen in a song that matches the cadence of the other woman’s movements.
This was the wetness that would’ve quenched her thirst earlier.
Or maybe, it wouldn’t have.
In a split-second, it all stops. Her consciousness is greeted by the sight of Alicia panting, head down, eyes not meeting hers.
The then-aggressive one straightens up and walks away, steps faltering as she walks to the edge of the pavement. As if on cue, a cab stops at the appearance of Alicia’s outstretched arm. The woman opens the door and looks at her one last time, expression unreadable, face shadowed by both dark and drunkenness.
Alicia’s head disappears into the cab - but not until Kalinda sees the confused but sensual way the other woman bites her lips.
---
She should have known that the grayish suit with white piping that first appeared in her dream was an omen; but because of what had transpired hours before the official dawning of the weekend, she failed to put it into perspective.
Saturday and Sunday came and went for Kalinda. Weekends usually meant relaxing with her favorite drink (espresso in mornings, carrot juice in the afternoon and Stella Artois in the evenings) while reading a book. Sometimes, it meant going out on a date (and if the date’s really attractive - getting laid). Lately, she has hit a monsoon season in terms of dating. She isn’t complaining though, lest she jinxes it and a dry spell ensues.
Complaints or not, her mind and body synchronously shut down their systems dedicated to sex and attraction. All it needed was one kiss (or was it just one?) from one Alicia Florrick, and she became impotent for and to everyone else.
Her weekend was a collective set of hours spent staring into nothingness, still with her favorite drink on hand - although her nighttime drink spilled into mornings and afternoons too. Each swig she took was a petal plucked from a flower while reciting, “She loves me; she loves me not.”
Every time she didn’t (and even if she did) get the sentence she wanted to hear, she’d crack a fresh bottle and resume her childish game with fate. Sometimes, she replaced it (for variety) with a Hamlet-like declaration of, “to call or not to call.”
The hours she spent contemplating those lines and nursing the bottles of beer were much more than the actual hours she spent sleeping. Perhaps it was the lack of Alicia’s presence in her dreams that made her take sleep for granted.
The make out session, the inner debate that went on over the weekend, and the lack of sleep were more than enough to be nescient to the ominous appearance of the wardrobe she had an almost-nightmare about.
Alicia barely looked at her upon entering the boardroom. Kalinda can’t blame her - she knows she should have followed the cab that night. She knows that because she let that night end in question, she should’ve called or visited over the weekend.
But it was the lack of agenda that prevented her.
If she had followed the cab, what would she have done upon reaching Alicia’s apartment, where her family was waiting? If she had visited over the weekend, what would she have felt about intruding upon a peaceful family time?
She would never know the answer to that. She failed to seize the moment; and the proverbial moment has passed.
Her agenda still wasn’t spelled out when she entered Mrs. Florrick’s office. She knew, upon crossing the threshold that she wanted to talk to her. Just talk and make sure everything was fine.
While thinking of the best way to begin the conversation and to segue (or not) to last Friday’s event, her phone rang.
Cary.
She totally forgot about the cold case they were supposed to be working on.
She answers the phone lazily. She’d rather be left to her own thoughts. A few seconds pass by, with her half-listening to Cary’s updates. She knows she will need to ask Cary to repeat everything he is saying - she really can’t concentrate. Her body snaps to attention as she hears the clacking of stilettos that can only be her muse’s. She smiles inwardly as she admits to herself that she has memorized the inexperienced-with-killer-heels-but-still-sexy-as-hell cadence of Alicia’s footsteps.
She quickly wraps up the call just when Mrs. Florrick’s form enters the room.
“That was Cary. There's this cold case, we're gonna stay in touch,” she sits in the chair beside the desk. “So, what’s up?”
Nothing, of the myriad adventures (and misadventures) Kalinda had, could ever prepare her for what came next.
“No, Kalinda, No.” Alicia starts out, a hint of anger in her voice.
“What?”
“We both work here. We're both going to continue working here, so let's not talk.”
Kalinda’s mind goes blank. This is beyond the awkward kiss that the speaker herself initiated.
I know I should have stopped it, I know I should have. But I couldn’t. I should tell her. I should tell her.
Instead, “I shall…” comes out of her lips.
Coward. I should have told her.
Her eyes are starting to redden, tears threatening to flow.
“No, you don't explain anything … you do not put a single thing in context… You slept with my husband.” Alicia whispers - anguish coming out in small puffs together with her contained sobs.
Stereotypical images drawn about secrets being exposed have basis in reality, because everything that has ever been written about being caught lying is what Kalinda is feeling right at that moment.
Her blood ran cold as the feeling of ice water being poured onto her takes over. Her stomach plummets from the office floor of Lockhart Gardner to the ground. Her heart stilled for an even minute. Her face mirrored the pale ash color of Alicia’s suit.
She wants to explain, to say something, but the web in her mind and sand in her throat prevent her from speaking.
Her eyes start to sting as she hears Alicia’s withheld sobs; the pain she’s already feeling from being found out (and just after a beautiful moment, nonetheless) is intensified as she realizes that she is the cause of it.
“… I s-s-swear I will scream at the top of my lungs… if… you don't get out of my office now.”
Kalinda slides her phone into her notebook and picks up her stuff with shaking hands. She walks out of Mrs. Florrick’s office, maybe - but hopefully not - for the last time. She staggers, hands almost outstretched, desperately trying to hold onto something… something solid that she can temporarily wrap her mind onto.
She enters the elevator praying that nobody goes in with her.
Maybe she should have prayed, should have prayed harder that her secret won’t be revealed - because it took only that to grant her wish to be alone for her elevator ride.
The tears flow freely, gravity pulling and milking them faster and harder as she descends to the basement.
Each floor, a glassful of tears.
Each glassful, a toast to seal the pact of self-preservation.
She arrives at the basement drunk, numb with sorrow.
She envies people who have nightmares. They will always wake up from them.
She never will.
NOTE: Many thanks to my non-writer friend, Nik, who has endured my ceaseless calls (even in the wee hours of the night) just so I can pick her brains about plot decisions.
Nothing had ever made Kalinda frightened; her confidence was as sure and true as the rotation of the earth on its axis causing night and day. Once upon a time, she almost kissed the barrel of a gun (and her life goodbye) without batting an eyelash. Had she been placed on a polygraph then, the tracing would not have shown a hint of worry.
That is why Kalinda is rattled that a dream can now unhinge her so much.
Last night, she dreamt about beautiful and fragile Alicia. Unlike her usual dreams that end up dampening her underpants, this came close to what most would consider a nightmare - but not quite for her.
In her dream, Alicia was wearing a gray suit with white piping and a look that was mostly intent but with undertones of seduction. Just when she was about to close the distance between their lips, Alicia whispered.
I know your secret, Leela. You slept with my husband.
Alicia’s smirk widened until her face was enveloped by it. Her form disintegrated into a million particles; the force sending Kalinda spiraling into nothingness.
She woke up bathed in sweat that morning.
In her breakfast coffee, she could taste the regret of having done the deed. At that time, it seemed insignificant as she had slept casually with other people for reasons she couldn’t quite rationalize. She didn’t know that the one thing she could account for would be the one thing that’d break her.
She threw the remaining coffee into the sink sloppily and proceeded to get dressed. As she zipped her boots up, she prayed to the gods she used to never believe in that she could hide the secret along with the disappearance of her skin into the leather.
---
Work temporarily brought back her swagger as she tried to pry information from an infatuated nurse.
Maybe I am exaggerating. Maybe I am just becoming a worrywart.
A small sigh escapes from her lips as she enters her office. The lack of clutter and the almost-sterile look of her (im)personal space bothers her more. Perhaps it is the lack of visual distractions that makes her remember her short encounter with Alicia.
She slumps onto her chair and winces - both from the searing pain of having sat on a stray pen and the memory of the cold shoulder Alicia gave her earlier.
Or maybe I am not exaggerating.
Shifting to her side to remove the pen poking at her behind, she almost jumps as she sees in her periphery, Alicia’s well-made-up face peeping in her office. Like some sort of apparition, the strength of mind summoning the object of concentration, the woman looks at her not recognizing the surprise the sudden presence caused.
Kalinda raises her perfectly sculpted eyebrows in muted curiosity.
“Tequila after work?”
Maybe I am just exaggerating. She tilts her head carefully, studying the air that hung about Alicia’s mouth, as though she can assess the sincerity of the invitation.
“Having a tough day?” she opts to ask instead.
The answer did not come instantly. There was first a weighing of the question apparent in the shifting of Alicia’s eyes sideways for three even breaths.
“Somewhat,” is the answer that came.
“Sure. I just need to wrap up something first…”
“I’ll meet you there,” Alicia cuts her off with a mixture of relief and surreptitious dismissal. She gives Kalinda a bright smile before she turns around and says, “Gotta get back to work,” voice trailing off.
Kalinda is now smiling, quite assured for the moment.
I WAS exaggerating.
The rest of the day continued without a hitch.
---
There are perhaps a dozen pubs in the area, but they have always frequented one in particular. Perhaps it is because the place is well-lit. Perhaps because it has become less populated in the course of their friendship, making it more conducive to private conversations about their cases. They used to joke that they brought a curse with them so the pub can be their second office.
They both took their joke seriously: they have, no matter how much they deny, made up for the lack of customers in their almost-daily visits and the six-or-more shots they always have.
Kalinda walks in, quite proud that she is only thirty minutes late. Less than an hour ago, Alicia knocked at her office saying she was leaving. “The usual,” was all the instruction Alicia could afford to leave as she was talking to someone over the phone. Kalinda nodded her agreement, respectful of whatever conversation Alicia was having.
“Tough day indeed,” Kalinda quips as she walks up to Alicia. She sees the three empty shot glasses in front of Alicia, and three full ones, quite possibly waiting for her.
“You have to make up for lost… time,” Alicia points towards the glasses.
“Have plans of killing me?”
“That’s the idea,” Alicia’s smile caused the cocoons inside Kalinda’s stomach to metamorphose into restless butterflies flitting excitedly as the suggestion of the remark (made perhaps because of the alcohol the other woman consumed or her own overactive imagination) sinks in.
She reaches out for the first shot and downs it with one courageous gulp. She quickly follows it up with the second one, intent on making the butterflies drunk, so she can function once more.
“You want to die tonight.” Alicia observes, following her previous allusion.
“No,” she removes the lime from her mouth. “Just thirsty.”
“Ah. Then maybe you need something to wet your throat.”
The butterflies flutter with more energy. She reaches for her third shot and signals the bartender for two more before she downs the liquor. The burning in her mouth and the trail it left in its aftermath keep her from falling off her seat, as she is enveloped by the first hint of drunkenness.
“Careful there. I don’t want you dead. Not tonight.”
She coughs as the juice from the second lime she’s sucking dry goes down wrong.
“I thought you wanted me dead,” she smiles to herself. “I just made up for lost time,” she sniffs as she turns to Alicia. “So, how was court? Will asked me to dig deeper into the good doctor’s record - did you find the information useful?” She shifts to the case they have just wrapped up. Thanks to Alicia’s observant eye (which she probably took from Kalinda), they discovered inconsistencies about the manner in which the doctor grants organ donation recommendation and approval. Although it began as a hunch, it was strengthened by Kalinda’s discovery that the same doctor orders radiographic scans more than once on patients he refused for organ transplantation.
This, of course, is a relatively trivial conversation - the most accessible topic Kalinda can shift to, so as to avoid being inebriated before nine. She knows, if the conversation continues the way it started, she’d be digging and subsequently, burying herself in a hole deep enough to entomb the entire area 51 secrets in. She also knows that Alicia will not be able to resist talking about the case.
She was right. They talked for two straight hours with just four more shots each sans the revival of the butterflies now silently sleeping in her stomach.
A joke cracked later on, and she breaks into a coughing fit as a few drops of tequila (once again) went down the wrong way. Kalinda laughs and coughs, taken completely by the torture of not being able to truly enjoy the joke and the spasm in her trachea. Spittle dribbling at the side of her mouth, she takes a few calming breaths to clear her airway.
As she turns to Alicia, she feels the other woman’s hand cupping her chin, thumb lightly swiping her saliva away.
Swipe turning into a caress, Alicia resumes the talk, “I told you, I don’t want you to die yet.” Her hand lingers on her face much beyond the friendly few seconds.
The butterflies stir afresh.
---
Three more shots consumed in thirty minutes (a single one for Alicia) and she walks out of the pub with unsteady legs. A cab passed by, but in her state, her reflexes aren’t quick enough to hail it.
The street is empty, save for a couple of cars parked strategically under lampposts, effectively dimming most parts of 9th street. She lets her eyes adjust - the stark contrast of the well-lit bar against the darkness of the outside disorients her.
Her confusion grows as she feels Alicia’s hand grabbing her arm. She almost loses her balance as she is turned sharply towards the demanding pull. The only thing that breaks her fall is the soft lips that hungrily meet hers. If it were not for the slight pressure (and suction) coming from the other’s mouth, she would’ve dismissed it as an awkward accident.
She knows it is not the tequila that commands her. In a heartbeat, she abandons any reasonable argument with herself before it even starts. All she is aware of is the spinning in her head punctuated by the awakening of the butterflies in her stomach. The experience is beyond impossible, but she meets Alicia’s lips nonetheless. The passion with which her lips and mouth are crashing down on the well-kissed woman rouse the gods - such intensity is reserved only for creation.
The older woman’s mouth opens as she deepens the kiss. Euphoria takes over as she feels the quickening of breath and hears the escaping of stifled moans from the person she is assaulting with the sweetest kisses. The headiness heightens as she feels Alicia pulling her closer as though it were possible with their clothes on. Her balance wavers as the taller woman clings to her for dear life, or desire for satisfaction.
Her tongue darts about Alicia’s mouth, each flick becomes a silent prayer that is balancing between a plea to stop before she loses it and an encouragement to not stop so that she does lose it. The seesaw tilts dangerously close to the latter as she feels the other woman’s legs parting followed by an incredibly hot center rubbing the length of her upper thigh. The initially barely discernable dampness gradually increases as the slithering and gyrating become more rhythmical. Her hands start to dance on Alicia’s midsection, fingers playing the ivories of the woman’s abdomen in a song that matches the cadence of the other woman’s movements.
This was the wetness that would’ve quenched her thirst earlier.
Or maybe, it wouldn’t have.
In a split-second, it all stops. Her consciousness is greeted by the sight of Alicia panting, head down, eyes not meeting hers.
The then-aggressive one straightens up and walks away, steps faltering as she walks to the edge of the pavement. As if on cue, a cab stops at the appearance of Alicia’s outstretched arm. The woman opens the door and looks at her one last time, expression unreadable, face shadowed by both dark and drunkenness.
Alicia’s head disappears into the cab - but not until Kalinda sees the confused but sensual way the other woman bites her lips.
---
She should have known that the grayish suit with white piping that first appeared in her dream was an omen; but because of what had transpired hours before the official dawning of the weekend, she failed to put it into perspective.
Saturday and Sunday came and went for Kalinda. Weekends usually meant relaxing with her favorite drink (espresso in mornings, carrot juice in the afternoon and Stella Artois in the evenings) while reading a book. Sometimes, it meant going out on a date (and if the date’s really attractive - getting laid). Lately, she has hit a monsoon season in terms of dating. She isn’t complaining though, lest she jinxes it and a dry spell ensues.
Complaints or not, her mind and body synchronously shut down their systems dedicated to sex and attraction. All it needed was one kiss (or was it just one?) from one Alicia Florrick, and she became impotent for and to everyone else.
Her weekend was a collective set of hours spent staring into nothingness, still with her favorite drink on hand - although her nighttime drink spilled into mornings and afternoons too. Each swig she took was a petal plucked from a flower while reciting, “She loves me; she loves me not.”
Every time she didn’t (and even if she did) get the sentence she wanted to hear, she’d crack a fresh bottle and resume her childish game with fate. Sometimes, she replaced it (for variety) with a Hamlet-like declaration of, “to call or not to call.”
The hours she spent contemplating those lines and nursing the bottles of beer were much more than the actual hours she spent sleeping. Perhaps it was the lack of Alicia’s presence in her dreams that made her take sleep for granted.
The make out session, the inner debate that went on over the weekend, and the lack of sleep were more than enough to be nescient to the ominous appearance of the wardrobe she had an almost-nightmare about.
Alicia barely looked at her upon entering the boardroom. Kalinda can’t blame her - she knows she should have followed the cab that night. She knows that because she let that night end in question, she should’ve called or visited over the weekend.
But it was the lack of agenda that prevented her.
If she had followed the cab, what would she have done upon reaching Alicia’s apartment, where her family was waiting? If she had visited over the weekend, what would she have felt about intruding upon a peaceful family time?
She would never know the answer to that. She failed to seize the moment; and the proverbial moment has passed.
Her agenda still wasn’t spelled out when she entered Mrs. Florrick’s office. She knew, upon crossing the threshold that she wanted to talk to her. Just talk and make sure everything was fine.
While thinking of the best way to begin the conversation and to segue (or not) to last Friday’s event, her phone rang.
Cary.
She totally forgot about the cold case they were supposed to be working on.
She answers the phone lazily. She’d rather be left to her own thoughts. A few seconds pass by, with her half-listening to Cary’s updates. She knows she will need to ask Cary to repeat everything he is saying - she really can’t concentrate. Her body snaps to attention as she hears the clacking of stilettos that can only be her muse’s. She smiles inwardly as she admits to herself that she has memorized the inexperienced-with-killer-heels-but-still-sexy-as-hell cadence of Alicia’s footsteps.
She quickly wraps up the call just when Mrs. Florrick’s form enters the room.
“That was Cary. There's this cold case, we're gonna stay in touch,” she sits in the chair beside the desk. “So, what’s up?”
Nothing, of the myriad adventures (and misadventures) Kalinda had, could ever prepare her for what came next.
“No, Kalinda, No.” Alicia starts out, a hint of anger in her voice.
“What?”
“We both work here. We're both going to continue working here, so let's not talk.”
Kalinda’s mind goes blank. This is beyond the awkward kiss that the speaker herself initiated.
I know I should have stopped it, I know I should have. But I couldn’t. I should tell her. I should tell her.
Instead, “I shall…” comes out of her lips.
Coward. I should have told her.
Her eyes are starting to redden, tears threatening to flow.
“No, you don't explain anything … you do not put a single thing in context… You slept with my husband.” Alicia whispers - anguish coming out in small puffs together with her contained sobs.
Stereotypical images drawn about secrets being exposed have basis in reality, because everything that has ever been written about being caught lying is what Kalinda is feeling right at that moment.
Her blood ran cold as the feeling of ice water being poured onto her takes over. Her stomach plummets from the office floor of Lockhart Gardner to the ground. Her heart stilled for an even minute. Her face mirrored the pale ash color of Alicia’s suit.
She wants to explain, to say something, but the web in her mind and sand in her throat prevent her from speaking.
Her eyes start to sting as she hears Alicia’s withheld sobs; the pain she’s already feeling from being found out (and just after a beautiful moment, nonetheless) is intensified as she realizes that she is the cause of it.
“… I s-s-swear I will scream at the top of my lungs… if… you don't get out of my office now.”
Kalinda slides her phone into her notebook and picks up her stuff with shaking hands. She walks out of Mrs. Florrick’s office, maybe - but hopefully not - for the last time. She staggers, hands almost outstretched, desperately trying to hold onto something… something solid that she can temporarily wrap her mind onto.
She enters the elevator praying that nobody goes in with her.
Maybe she should have prayed, should have prayed harder that her secret won’t be revealed - because it took only that to grant her wish to be alone for her elevator ride.
The tears flow freely, gravity pulling and milking them faster and harder as she descends to the basement.
Each floor, a glassful of tears.
Each glassful, a toast to seal the pact of self-preservation.
She arrives at the basement drunk, numb with sorrow.
She envies people who have nightmares. They will always wake up from them.
She never will.