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Say My Name

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Donna: What should I be doing, instead of this?
CJ: Anything that doesn't have to do with Josh Lyman.

~ The West Wing, "No Exit"

 

I've heard him say my name hundreds of times. The sheer creativity and variety astound me.

A teasing tone, teetering precariously between flirtatious ambiguity and obnoxious mockery.

One languorous breath exhaling whisper-soft comfort, the sound enveloping me because he can't.

An obliviously impatient pitch, the thunderous fermata of my name breaking from the office of his frustration, seeking me, shaking my foundation.

However he says it... Under the liquid touch of his tongue my name becomes a melodic symphony of syllables, a great glissando of tenor and volume, stopping me where I stand.

I enjoy when he shouts my name. In fact, I long for the day when he shouts it in another way, in a whole other place. In gentle darkness, we harmonize.

But tonight he shouts it in a voice unrecognizable, and I flinch.

Why does it sound so different to me?

And before I can stop myself, why do I walk away?

end