Title: Starvation (Leslie POV)
Fandom: Parks and Recreation
Pairing: Leslie/Ben
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~10,100
Summary: My answer to the question: "How do we get from the breakup in I'm Leslie Knope to 'I miss you like crazy, I think about you all the time, so let's just say screw it' in Smallest Park?"
Notes: Written for the Behind Closed Doors Challenge. This is an experiment. The whole project is, and so is this piece, starting with the narrative situation, which I know some people will probably find really irritating. But that's okay. In fact, I think that's part of the fun! Big thank you to rikyl and princess_george for the beta—both your input was incredibly insightful—, and to sullen_aquarian for comments along the way! Enjoy. I hope. Comments are the best, of course.






Starvation


I. All is right in the world.

When I get home, I'm suddenly ravenous. I attack the fridge, only to realize there's nothing in it. Nothing but the basket of strawberries Ben brought over four days ago. That, and condiments. It's been a J.J.'s kind of week. I haven't eaten a single one of the strawberries. It's not that I've been avoiding them, exactly, except maybe I have. It's been an avoidance kind of week, too. Or two, or three.

There's nothing for it. I take out a can of whipped cream from my supply and eat the strawberries like that, one by one, with a large dollop of whipped cream on each. From where I'm sitting at the kitchen table, I can see the sun starting to set in between the houses across the street. It reminds me of the sun on Ben's face in the crowd. The way he smiled at me. So proud, so supportive. I close my eyes, try to feel the warmth of the sun, to taste the sweetness of his smile in the strawberries. I smile as the comfort of both spreads through me. I sigh. For the first time in a while, I know that everything's going to be okay.

Ann was right, as usual. Wise, beautiful Ann. It was insane not to tell him for three weeks. Insane, and needlessly nerve-wrecking. He already knew anyway, of course. Of course, of course. Damn him and his superior sneakiness …

But now we're finally on the same page again, he and I, and it feels, more than anything, like relief. It's not that I want to stop kissing him, making out with him, any of that. Of course not! But it's been three weeks of procrastinating and agonizing and if I'm sad now I only need to think of all the fun we had before we ever even kissed. I'll think of Harvest Fest and camping and … and the trip to Indianapolis—why not?—and the sun on his smiling face today. And I'll know everything will be okay.

Opening my eyes, I discover that the sun has vanished in between the houses across the street, leaving behind its magnificent orange-pink glow. The color of pollution. Gorgeous. Not worth the asthma though, according to Ben. I'm still kind of on the fence about it. Worse things have been done to make something beautiful. And once you've got that, that orange-pink glow, something so beautiful, it's hard to let go of. Would Pawnee's citizens choose cleaner candy-manufacturing methods if they knew the consequences to the quality of their sunsets? I doubt it. After all, we have to compete with Eagleton's vanilla-air somehow …

I push the thought away because now I'm just arguing with myself in my head. I suppose I could call Ben and reopen that debate … No. I don't know. Maybe I should. Maybe I shouldn't. Would I ordinarily? Oh well. It doesn't matter right now. We'll have plenty of opportunities to argue about the quality of Pawnee v. Eagleton skies, right?

Plenty.

Right?

My shoulders tense up. Damn. I wish Ben were here. And his amazing fingers. For the shoulders, for the debate about Pawnee's sky, for ...

Breathe, Leslie. There will be plenty of opportunities. Of course there will.

And right now— Right now, what matters is that these strawberries are juicy and the sky is gorgeous and ... and announcing the campaign has just left me with such a buzz! There's a slight tremble running through my whole body and my right leg doesn't want to stop bouncing up and down. But it's all good. Great. All is right in the world. Right? Yes.

I start spreading whipped cream on the entire top layer of berries in the basket, to save time, and devour more strawberries. Quickly, I pop them into my mouth, one following the other before I’ve swallowed it, and so on, in a constant stream, my mouth filled with a fruity mash of strawberries and cream. It tastes sweet, almost sickly sweet—the strawberries are a little overripe. My hands are all sticky with red-stained cream. If anyone could see … but there's no one here. So I pick up two or three berries at once. Maybe they're actually a lot overripe. But you can't just throw that away, a basket full of deep red farmer's market strawberries that Ben brought over four days ago. Plus, I'm famished. So I’m eating them. Quickly. Too quickly probably—a drop of strawberry juice and liquid cream runs from the edge of my mouth down my chin; I use the back of my hand to wipe it away—but I don't care. These berries are delicious. And I can't get enough.

≈

Empty. Sheets and more sheets. A couple of pillows. Good bed. Comfy bed. Nice and warm and … empty. But he's a late riser. Or at any rate a late riser by my standards. But then they all are, or were, and that's not criticism so much as it is an observation; I'm not complaining, even though I do make him pancakes nine times out of ten and the one time he makes me waffles it's a second breakfast for me …

But that's beside the point. The bed is empty. My eyes fly open and confirm it, and my brain is helpfully pushed into gear by my blazer jacket on the chair next to the empty bed. KNOPE 2012 proclaims the button from its lapel in cheerful red, white, and blue. And yet it looks official, somehow, against the somber black of the jacket. Political. Professional. And very real. There's an elevator in my stomach and it's going down.

I swallow and sigh and want to return to the blissful half-sleep, where I don't know Ben isn't lying next to me, nor why he isn't.

If he were, right now, what would I do?

Well, first, I would uncover his chest from the sheets. That chest would be naked, although Ben rarely sleeps like that. But it would be, now. Because maybe he forgot to bring a t-shirt to sleep in or maybe he fell asleep rather suddenly, after— No, he doesn't really do that either … It doesn't matter, though. It's my fantasy, and his torso would be naked under the sheets, waiting for me to uncover and run my fingers over it, ever so lightly. A feather-light touch that wouldn't wake him up. I would lie on my side, with my head propped on my elbow, and trace his sexy, lean, taut and narrow chest with my fingertips. Exactly the same way I'm running my fingers through the jumbled sheets next to me now.

Next, I would pepper tiny kisses where the fingers traced before. On his belly button and beneath, on the spot right above where the hair starts to grow. On his sides, which are awesomely lean, without a gram of fat on them. His nipples. His collar bone. Both his collar bones. And the hollow of his throat. His skin would be smooth, just as smooth as the sheets feel beneath my lips as I kiss them now, but warmer. Warmer and more alive. Maybe a muscle would twitch, here and there. Maybe a smile would spread across his face, still only half-conscious. His eyes would still be closed.

Until I slip my fingers under the waistband of his shorts. My fingers would be warm, but his morning erection would be much warmer still. I would give it a light stroke, no more, really, than I did to his chest. But that would wake him up.

"'Morning," he would say, smiling but bemused at the same time, "Leslie …"

"Oh good morning, Ben," I'd say with a wicked grin just as I closed my hand around his cock.

He would gasp and sputter, "Wh—what … Leslie?"

"I would think that would be obvious, Ben." And I'd give his erection a couple of firm strokes, feeling it swell in my hand.

I would kiss him then, on his face, and climb on top of him.

Ben, fully awake now, would stroke me through my pajama pants. I moan, thinking of it, emulating it. My fingers don't feel like his. They're shorter, thinner, not quite right. I ignore it. This is Ben, I tell myself. His fingers, long and delicate, but not delicate like mine, not like a woman's. His fingertips have just the right breadth, know how to apply just the right amount of pressure, firm but not forceful … Ohh. I moan again.

Then Ben would— Ben is tearing off my pajamas, because it's not enough, fingertips through a layer of fabric, not quite enough, and he knows. Knows just when to take it that step further. I throw my pajamas on the chair where the blazer hangs. They hit the chair, then drop to the floor. Who cares?

Turning my head sideways, I bury half my face in the pillow as I touch myself, as Ben touches me, naked now. The images in my head are jumbled, one following the other suddenly and without transition as pressure builds in my abdomen.

My other hand brushes across my left nipple, and it's Ben's mouth there; I make a keening sound and he looks up at me, grinning, satisfied; my— his hand is still working my clitoris, and there's a finger inside me. His finger, I tell myself, bending just right. Making me squirm. More. More. More.

His skin is soft, silky like the sheets, slightly sweaty, flushed. The feeling of skin on skin—oh god. I have to— I need to— I will myself to feel it. Legs brushing against each other, his arms around me, hands clutching at my back, the shifting of his abs working under me as his hips pump. Rocking his erection against my thigh. Eagerly. Helplessly. "Leslie. Oh. Les— Leslie. Ahh." We're naked to each other, in every way. Need and want and … aahhh. Skin on skin on skin on skin. Enough to drive me crazy in a good way.

And finally. My fingers are slipping in and out of my vagina, the base of my thumb brushing against my clitoris, but it's Ben who is inside me, moving quickly, in and almost out. An electric surge goes through my entire body, from the roots of my hair down to the tips of my toes. Each thrust brings a wave of white hot heat.

His breath, hot, ragged, against my ear, makes me writhe. There's a pearl of sweat running from Ben's temple down his cheek and an entranced expression on his face. Cute. Sexy. Beautiful. I smile at him and my hands grasp at something, anything. The sheets. His hair. Messing up his great, his fantastic head of hair. He looks like he's been hit by lightning, like a mad scientist, but adorably so. Crazy hair.

I almost laugh, and then I adjust my position on top of him, grind myself against him, and—Oh god. I feel him, I need to feel him, all of him. Inside me and around me and all over. Everywhere. Ben. Ben. Ben. Ben. Close. So close. Oh fuck. Faster. Under me, he groans and moans and trembles with the effort not to come. Faster. Faster. Faster.

“Beeen!”

The wave crests. I'm coming, coming, shuddering, falling, with a cry of relief that leaves my mouth hanging open and plants what I'm sure is a completely ridiculously expression on my face. Boneless. Blank. Delicious.

I turn over in the bed, roll onto my stomach, and hide my face in the pillow until my breathing slows. Ben's face has vanished already, his body melted away. It's just me and the sheets again. Silky-soft and not even a little bit alive.

≈

In the shower, washing off the sweat and the smell of myself from my fingers, I think of what's next. An ordinary day at work, that's what. Nothing special. Nothing to do for the campaign, even. Not for … not for a while. It seems … incredible. Impossible. Unfair. And so, as I massage shampoo in my hair, I resolve two things:

1) Instead of park maintenance and hummingbird feeders, the Battle Royale is what's on schedule today. It's coming up anyway. Not immediately, granted. It's really still more than a week away. But it never hurts to get a head start on anything, and definitely not when it's something as important as Budgetary Thunderdome. Even Ron will be on board for this one. It's a total win-win. And an extra win on top of that because you won't have time to think about Ben and the breakup and how normal/abnormal things are going to be on that front from here on out, says a double-crossing little voice in my head. You probably won't even have time to see him and compare the way he looked in that fantasy of yours to the real thing …

Silence, I think. Here's resolution number two:

2) A call to my advisers is in order. It won't do to lose whatever momentum the campaign has gained from my TV interview and the early announcement. We should talk strategy. I don't have four binders filled with campaign ideas for nothing.

≈

And that's how it goes. Operation Rescue Ron turns into Operation Golden Dove turns into Operation Soaring Falcon, and finally we fight—and win—the Battle Royale. William and Elizabeth, meanwhile, are impressed with the strategy-binders, but even more impressed with the history of Pawnee I typed from memory. "What was this for?" they ask, like they can't quite believe it exists. I tell them that it was all for this Time Capsule … thing, that I wrote it literally to be buried but then things got out of hand and I never even did that. I have to admit, looking back, that the book looks like overkill. But it's all the better that it exists now, because William and Elizabeth get that get that look on their faces, like they're hungry or like they just struck a vein of gold. And it's a whirlwind from there. We ask more people to contribute and, after much debate, I agree to let them remove all my poetry, they even slap my face on the cover, and then there it is. Bam! I'm published! Only in Pawnee, of course, but that's what counts. That's what matters.

So here I sit. A cardboard box filled with shiny new books is on the sofa table in front of me. I make a list: Ann, Ben, Ron, Tom, Chris, Donna, Andy, April, Jerry. Nine copies to be signed and dedicated. I take out one and start to write "For Ann, the best best friend and the most beautiful nurse in the world. When I first met you, four years ago, …"

Ron, Tom, Chris, Donna, Andy. From each copy that I take out of the box to sign my face looks back at me, smiling and super self-confident. Leslie the published author. When I add Andy's copy to the finished stack, I think she's challenging me.

I take another look at the list. April, Jerry … Ben. Three left. I take the next copy out of the box of shiny new books, and now I find that Leslie-the-published-author's eyes are boring into me.

I know what you're doing, she says to me through those eyes.

I'm not doing anything, I think back at her.

Uh huh, she says. You're just postponing the inevitable.

Oh shut up, Leslie.

I pick up the pen and write,

Jerry,

Get well soon!

Leslie Knope

and then place it on the finished stack. Two left to sign. I pick up another fresh copy and this time I could swear Leslie-the-cover-girl is positively leering at me, taunting me, feeling ever-so-superior. It's easy to be Leslie-the-cover-girl though, isn't it? All you have to do is stand and look pretty next to a 'Welcome to Pawnee, IN' sign. There are no real-world concerns. Just perfect poise and that unnervingly direct gaze out from the cover. Even though raccoons are creeping up behind you. But then, you're perfectly secure in the knowledge that they will never reach you, I suppose.

I open the book rather roughly, but thankfully without bending the cover, and start my dedication to April. I have lots to say to her, I really do, and by the time I close the book and place it back-cover-first onto the finished stack, it's almost 3 a.m. I yawn and stretch my back. Time to call it a night, I decide. I'm afraid I won't be able to sleep, what with the excitement of the book release and the anticipation of handing out the signed copies at work tomorrow, but, actually, I fall asleep right away.


In the morning, I spend an unusually long time studying my face in the mirror. The little lines around my eyes and on my forehead, my eyebrows, which need a plucking. Which lipstick goes with the dark blue blouse and grey blazer?

I also decide that I've got to have waffles, so I make those, and coffee, which I make using the French press for a change. It's already almost time to leave for work as I press down the coffee grounds and pour myself a cup. It smells so good, French press coffee, I gotta hand that to Ben, even if it is nearly Eagleton-level fancy. He bought the press. It seemed to make sense, since he liked his coffee that way— likes his coffee that way, and with all the nights he … well, he used to spend here.

I drink the coffee, rather too quickly to fully enjoy the aroma perhaps, while I drum a rhythm on the kitchen table with my fingertips. Then it's time to go. The stack of signed books awaits in the living room. I breathe out sharply as I walk over there. All done but one. Irritably, I grab the last copy of my book from the box and write,

Ben—

I pause. What on earth do I say? I still have no more idea than last night. Dammit, Leslie, just start writing.

Thank you for your contribution to this book.

Oh, that's terrible, isn't it? Just awful. But there's no erasing the ink.

Couldn't have done it without you!

I check my watch. It's getting late. I'm never not the first to arrive at work. I don't know why that matters, but it does. So this dedication is a train wreck. Oh well. It's Ben. Ben. He'll understand. He will, right?

Always,
Leslie Knope

Well …that looks … It looks like it's not much longer than Jerry's inscription. That won't do. Not at all.

Ben—

Thank you for your contribution to this book.
Couldn't have done it without you!

Always,
Leslie Knope

My pen hovers over the page. What do I do? I can hear the seconds ticking away on my watch. So I make a judgment call and put an "I" in front of "Couldn't" and an "As" in front of "Always" and write over the capital C and the capital A to un-capitalize them. They look kind of like they're just smears now, but that can't be helped. And the whole thing still looks awfully short, so I add, Deputy Director, Department of Parks and Recreation, and Future Pawnee City Councilwoman underneath my name.

    Ben—

    Thank you for your contribution to this book.
 I couldn't have done it without you!

As always,
    Leslie Knope
    Deputy Director, Department of Parks and Recreation, and Future Pawnee City Councilwoman

That's … I fight down a wave of panic. Breathe, Leslie. He'll understand. It's totally fine. It doesn't matter.

I close the book and add it to the stack, which I lift up and carry out the door.

≈

Don't look at me like that.

I come home and throw myself on the bed, backwards, feet planted on the floor and eyes pointed to the ceiling, which I don't really see. It's Ben's face that won't stop flashing in my mind's eye.

So serious. With that look of, what is that? Longing? Don't look at me with longing. Don't eye my lips and then bite yours. Just don't. Please, please don't.

It's … it's … it's far too easy to undo me. This was a perfect day. Well, except for the Eagleton thing. Crap on a creperie. I still want to smash something when I think of that. Preferably the long haughty nose of an Eagletonian!

But, ultimately, Chris was right. It's not where you were born, it's where you live. Plus, I'm not even sure how clear the town lines are between Eagleton and Pawnee. As far as I'm concerned, some re-zoning is in order, some re-evaluation of the maps, particularly concerning that area around Eagleton Royal Hospital. "Royal", my ass! And it's not like we don't know that Eagleton has drawn and re-drawn the common town line to absorb all cool Pawnee things so often that it's pretty much impossible to tell where it ran at any time. Ass-faced jerks with their stupid, bottomless wallets.

But anyway. From there on out, it really was a perfect day. Triumph over Joan, and I didn't even have to take my pants off! Waffles for everyone! I love my friends. I love this town. (I always will.) William and Elizabeth are pleased with my performance once again.

And you. Meeting your eyes behind the monitor in Joan's studio. "I always will." You smiled at me, I looked at you. That sentence killed two birds with one stone. At least I hope it did. It really should have, right? It must have. "As always, Leslie Knope" and "I always will" and a look exchanged that spoke volumes. Always.

Always friends. Always supportive. Always important. And always … dare I say it, think it? The campaign won't last forever…

Always hope.

But don't, then, look at me like that. With so much hunger and such accusation. I felt it right across the room, despite the waffle-induced sugar-high. I feel it still.

I still taste the syrup when I lick my lips. Did you even try the waffles, Ben? I still see you press your lips together. I don't think you did try them. I pull down my zipper and shove my hand down my underpants. I should have made you try them, dammit.

I picture a hundred varieties of your face. Smiling at me. Grinning. An entranced expression and a pearl of sweat running from your temple down your cheek. Wet from the shower. Or so close to mine it's blurry. Eskimo kisses.

It doesn't work. My panties are soaked. Still, I can't get away from it. That look. The longing and the accusation and the way you pressed your lips together.

Always. Always. ALWAYS. I want to scream at you.

That look. That look. THAT LOOK. Across the distance of the room.

I cry out, shuddering, but there's no release. My clothes feel too tight, constricting. My position, half on the bed, half off it, is too awkward. Pressure to my clitoris is painful rather than pleasurable. I retreat to the bathroom and get ready for bed, determined not to think about your terrible face any more tonight.


II. Boom, goes the world.

Going to Chris's office to inform him about the Zorpies' bi-annual or so end of the world turns out to be much more productive than I thought.

"Looks like we're kinda forced to hang out with each other," I say to Ben, who's grumpy for some reason.

Finally, I add in my head. I can't believe I missed the Halloween party at Ben's house! It's been … a while since we spoke.

Just the other day, Ann and I took a coffee break in the courtyard at work …

"So how's it going?" she asked.

"Great!" I said. "I mean, I was pretty pissed about Tom's nonsense at the meet and greet, but I'm over it. You saw the video. My god, the video! No one could stay mad at him after that."

"Yeah … I meant about Ben and the breakup and all that."

"Oh, it's totally fine. We're friends. We were friends before and we're friends now and it's totally great, and besides," I lowered my voice conspiratorially, "you know, the campaign's not going to go on forever either." I winked at Ann to make my meaning clear.

"I see," Ann said, raising an eyebrow.

"You know, I only wish we'd have more time to hang out. Ben and I. We haven't lately. With the Goddesses camp and the Chamber of Commerce and everything, my schedule's been just packed. And I've been planning this thing. The high school asked me, because the club might get shut down otherwise, and you know how much I love Model UN. Actually, do you know how much I love Model UN?"

"Uh. Can imagine."

"I love Model UN. I'm kind of a local Model UN icon, actually. Or hero. Which is why Central High asked me to host their summit. And I couldn't be more thrilled! Though it's kind of a lot of work, trying to get all the flags in time—"

"Leslie?"

Ann was looking at me, inquisitively, and that's how I knew my eyes must have misted over because I'd just been struck with an idea.

"Ann, do you know who else loves Model UN?"

"Let me guess …"

"Ben! You know what that means? It means I'll ask him to run it with me, and it'll be something we both love, and we'll have the whole day to catch up, and it's gonna be awesome."

"Leslie—"

"I love having coffee with you, Ann, you beautiful cockatiel, you always give me the best ideas!"


… But the Model UN summit is still three weeks away and right now I'm pleased as punch that Chris doesn't know how ridiculous and non-dangerous the Zorpies really are, because I'll finally get to hang out with Ben for a night! I don't even care that the Zorpies are super annoying, I'm just thrilled that work and pleasure are going to mix once again tonight. Not that work isn't a pleasure in itself, which it totally is. It is officially going to be the best end of the world Pawnee has ever seen!

Ben doesn't look so thrilled to be spending his evening with the crazy Zorpies, though. He protests, even. Chris won't have it. Thank you, Chris, I think. I wish I could say that, but that would be weird. Besides, Ben probably just doesn't want to hang around the religious nuts, and what he doesn't realize is that he'll actually be hanging out with me.

"Looks like we're kinda forced to hang out with each other," I say, following him into his office.

"Yeah. Listen, I mean, I'll … I'll come for a bit. But if it's okay with you I'm not gonna stay. It's just, y'know, still kinda weird, right?"

"Yeah." No? "Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Mhm. Totally get it. Definitely get it." I don't get it at all. Still kinda weird? Well, okay. It may be a little weird. We haven't really seen each other lately, and when we do see each other, it's … well, it's him supporting the campaign, and strange glances across the room. Lips get bitten. Personal feelings don't get shared.

But look, we're just frustrated and impatient and we're stuck in these circumstances. For now. We'll just have to deal with that, as best we can, and we might as well enjoy each other's company along the way, right? Right. There's no use in moping.

≈

Nevertheless, I already feel kind of not-too-great when I get to the park. Ben's acting weird, and it hasn't been weird between us, really, ever. Belligerent, yes. Frustrated, yes. Awkward in a can't-keep-our-hands-off-each-other kind of way, definitely. And now I guess I'm just feeling wistful, longing for things I can't have, not at the moment. On top of that, it's an event for the end of the world. Not really, but still. I should be excused a little melancholy, I think, under the circumstances.

I sigh and vow to set things right tonight. Ben and I just need to have a good talk, that's all. Reassure each other that we're still on the same page. This is a dry spell for us, but we'll get through it.

It's no fun at all, though, when Ben's standing next to me, looking grim, while Chris reassures Shauna about the insignificance of the city manager's presence even though he ordered himself and Ben to attend. Chris is good at that, I'll give him that. Posing for effect.

Ben is not. Even his posture doesn't lie. He's got his hands in his pockets and won't look at me and it already kind of sucks. Then he makes a snarky comment about not having anything better to do tonight, and my heart plummets.

He and Chris walk away and I'm left with Shauna and that's when things go from bad to … to what? To unimaginable. There were wrinkles in the fabric of the world before, maybe, weird tensions, but now, now the whole thing is just coming apart; threads severing, seams bursting, the whole world is unravelling before my eyes.

I actually affirm that Ben is a man to her, as if Shauna didn't know. But it's me who has forgotten, isn't it? The rest of my body starts to follow my heart on its plummeting fall down some deep and narrow canyon. It's hot in there, my armpits start to sweat, and I know that I have no idea what I'm saying.

"But I am here to remind you that the reason you're not dating him is you decided to run for city council," Ann says when Shauna has stalked off to stalk Ben.

"Oh, so just because I can't go out with him someone else can? Wow."

Yes, Leslie, that's it exactly, says the part of my brain still capable of rational thought. Ben is a man. A single man, for all intents and purposes. A single man who could, potentially, date a single woman. Any single woman. But not me.

And that's— We haven't discussed— No affidavits have been signed— Nothing agreed upon at all …

Ben. Shauna. Sex. The world is ending.

It's not just sex either. It's everything. It's marriage. It's babies. It's whole lives lived and not lived and thrown out in an instant. It's Mark Brendanawicz all over again, but not really. It's far, far worse than Mark. It's Ben. Who should be better than Mark. Who is so much better than Mark. And suddenly he's not. Suddenly he's talking to Shauna and smiling at her and I want to cry and I want to rip his head off and rip her head off and I don't know what else. Just … off with both their heads!

≈

I lost my mind last night. What happened?

Well, I know I kept picturing it. The world exploding. Images flashing in my head, unbidden, unavoidable. Images of them. Ben and Shauna. At the same time, I couldn't not picture us. Ben and Leslie.

The way he would look at my body and tell me I was beautiful. His face in the shadow of my bedroom, curtains drawn. His eyes wide, but soft.

But he really goes for tall brunettes. And I … I'm an aberration. A fluke.

"The town has really nice blond hair."

Yeah, well, this town comes with really nice brown hair too, though, doesn't it?

Boom, goes the world. There's no one there to hear it. A massive fireball in space.

Ben rests his head on my chest, right cheek just above my left boob, after sex or in the early morning. He did that, several times, laid his head there like he was trying to listen to my heartbeat.

But I'm so short, and he's of average height. With his head on my chest, his feet would stick out of the covers, would reach beyond the bed.

She is taller. Shauna. They'd look good together. Their identically brunette hair spilling on the white sheets, their foreheads touching, hands clasped, legs intertwined, in a deep sleep. Two peas in a pod.

She's tall enough, but not too tall. And of course Ben's all angles and Shauna, too, is much slimmer than me.

I touched my sides and pinched the flesh there. Definite fat. You wouldn't get that if you touched Ben, ever. His calves are thicker than mine, but they're all muscle, and I don't really know about our thighs. And Shauna. Stupid Shauna is all skin and bones too, damn her. And I bet she loves salad and other disgusting things. Like Ben. They fit.

Look at them. In their sleep, serene, satisfied. The early morning sun shines on them, approvingly. They look like twins, or like they were made for each other, practically.

Boom, goes the world. There's no one left to care.

If I didn't screw this up, Ben and Shauna, before it happened, then who was gonna do it for me? No one, that's who. It's insane how well they fit together. And I … what was I, finally? I was freak accident. A short, blonde, candy-eating misstep that never should have happened in the first place: sleeping with my boss. But Shauna and Ben—just look at them! The journalist and the assistant city manager. Such a respectable, such an attractive couple. Inner and outer beauty combined. Chris would be delighted.

In short, it couldn't happen. I couldn't let it. And so I fixated on my goal and I took desperate measures for these desperate times. I had to screw this up. Had to get these images out of my head. I knew I was reaching a new low, driving around town like a lunatic, not knowing where I was going, taking the same route twice, but I didn't care. I felt like vomiting, I felt like screaming; I was going to do everything I could do and a couple of things on top of that. Until he took the wind out of my sails, just like that.

"I know what you're doing Leslie."

"I'm showing you a part of rock 'n' roll history!"

"You can't do this. You know, we broke up."

It keeps echoing in my head.

I'm thoroughly deflated now. I'm watching the sun come up in my living room. My limbs feel heavy and my head hurts from a sleepless night completely devoid of Nutriyum bars. It's just like Ron said, a regular Friday. I rest my head in my hands to shut out the sun. I may never lift it up again.

But it's true, let's face it. I am still running for city council and I'm still not ready to give that up. Not for Ben, not for anything. "I kind of feel like we shouldn't hang out together, just the two of us," he said. Goddammit. Right now, I can't even blame him. Who wants to hang out with the lunatic ex-girlfriend who takes you to an abandoned gas station to potentially murder you? God, I'm the worst. He said that, but he probably wouldn't even have said it if it hadn't been for the ridiculous joyride or the entirely transparent intervention I staged. And now I don't even know … The Model UN is coming up, and he's into that, I'm positive that he is, but now we "shouldn't hang out together", it's a total mess, and …

Okay. So. Deep breath. There's only one thing to do. I heave myself up off the couch and force my tired limbs to carry me out to the front porch where the sunlight hits my face directly. I breathe in deeply, close my eyes, and try to let the heartache go. Something inside me lifts, just slightly. Like it's ready to take off, but is still tethered to me somehow. I know what I have to do.


Ben looks adorable. Sleepy and disheveled. Like nighttime and cuddling, and … "And it wasn't until just now that I realized—the romantic part of our relationship is over," I say, focusing really hard on a random spot on his black t-shirt, because that look, like nighttime and cuddling and amazing backrubs, is too distracting, way too distracting, under the circumstances.

So there it is. The right thing to do. The only thing. I say it and I mean it, but still, it nags at me. I can't help wanting to know. "Why don't you tell Shauna to make herself decent and I'll apologize to her as well."

"Well, Shauna's not here."

Oh, that's a relief. Ben is still no Mark Brendanawicz. Of course not!

So he didn't sleep with Shauna, says the double-crossing voice in my head as I walk back to the car. He's no Mark Brendanawicz, right, but that doesn't mean...

Oh, be quiet, I think, wearily.


III. Saving the world from starvation.

I do feel better after that. Ben and I are finally on the same page again, as regards the nature of our relationship, and that's good. I immediately mount a new offensive. My goal is to cement our new, entirely platonic friendship. That's what it is, for now, and I accept that. It took me one messed up night to admit it, but now I have, and I feel better already. Besides, we were amazing friends long before we started dating, and since we can no longer date, we should make every effort to be amazing friends again. It's a no-brainer, right? Sure it is. Plus, The Model UN is coming up, and there couldn't be a more perfect event for us to run together, as friends of course, if I was planning it myself. Which I'm doing.

Ben never takes his lunch in the courtyard anymore, but that's no problem. I know he goes to Sue's Salads with Chris and what the hell, I can take one for our friendship and have salad, too.

"Hey Leslie!" Chris smiles as the door jingles and I enter Sue's.

This is hostile territory, and I try my best not to shudder or cross my arms in front of my chest.

"Hello friends! Fancy running into you! How's it going?" I say with my brightest smile as I join them at the counter.

"Excellent! Right Ben?"

"Oh. Uh huh. What are you doing here, Leslie?"

"Eating lunch, same as you." I wink at him.

Ben narrows his eyes, while Chris orders a salad called The Purist, which I can only assume is nothing but lettuce, without dressing. I take a look at the menu, but it is disheartening. I figure I'll just get whatever comes with the most cheese and fruit and other non-lettucy things.

Tanya hands Chris his big bowl of greens. He puts it on his tray, and says, "Let's all have lunch together, guys! How about over there, the table by the window?"

I open my mouth to commend Chris for his excellent judgment, but Ben says, "Uuuhm. You know. Oh, actually, I just … thought of this thing I forgot to fill out. In … in the office. So. If you don't mind, I'll just, you know, take mine to go. Sorry."

It's so obviously a lie. It's silly of him to think he could fool me with that. Such a weak attempt, too. But Chris is standing right there and how could I confront Ben in that situation, or reassure him, what could I possibly say…

Before I can make up my mind to say anything, Chris shrugs. "Well, okay then. Leslie, care to join me?"

And that's how I end up having salad with Chris. Alone. For three days in a row. He must have bewitched me somehow.

≈

A few days later, I'm walking down the hallway with Councilman Howser, who for some reason is never in his office at all, ever, which is why ambushing him in the hallway is the only way to talk to him. I do make it a point to do that once a day now instead of once a week, since we're about to be City Council buddies, or however you call that. How do you call that? Fellow City Councillors? City Council partners? In the League of Extraordinary City Councilmen and —women?

Anyway. I'm talking about rezoning Lot 48 so at least, even if I don't get to put that shark tank there, it can be turned into an adventure playground. (Not that I've given up hope for the shark tank entirely, which I haven't). Councilman Howser and I have been over variations on this particular topic two dozen times, but I know he doesn't mind. In fact, he's the only one of the city councilmen who listens to my thoughts on Lot 48 without fail, every time I bring up the topic. I think he is, at least secretly, pro-park, and that's why I don't mind talking to him about it, reminding him I'm still doing everything I can to stay on top of that project, even if there's nothing new to report and we're just kind of going through the motions. It helps to keep Lot 48 fresh in his mind, and I know I always appreciate it when people talk to me like that about things they care about.

However, on this particular Wednesday, I see Ben coming down the same hallway in the opposite direction. He's carrying a padfolio and is looking at the floor, then at the mural called Pawnee Zoo. He probably hasn't even seen me, and he's just about to pass by us and how can I let him, and that opportunity, just go by like that ...

"Oh, excuse me, Councilman However," I say and abruptly change direction. Howser will understand, I'm sure. He's a pretty understanding guy all around.

"Hey Ben," I call to Ben who's already ten feet away.

He slows down a bit, maybe. But hardly at all. I'm slightly out of breath when I catch up with him.

"Hey! How's it going?" I say.

"Oh, hi. Um. Fine? I guess."

"Great! Hey, listen—" Ben stops abruptly in front of an office door and I just have to. I can't help myself. I giggle.

"What's funny?" he asks. He doesn't look amused. Frown lines appear between his eyes.

"Just, you know, you did this once before. Remember? Actually, you may not remember. You were so flustered. You were all, 'You're great. Uhm. Oh. Uh. Bye.'''

He's looking at me with a big question mark on his face.

"Sorry," I say, smiling good-naturedly. I don't want him to think I'm making fun of him. That's not it at all. "But you did this before. You walked into an office that wasn't yours. You were so confused because I'd just … well." But there's a lump stuck in my throat, suddenly, and now smiling feels like it's stretching my face in unnatural directions. "Because I'd just asked you out," I finish, much more quietly.

Ben is not smiling at all. He clears his throat with a small cough. Short and sharp. "I have a meeting here, actually," he says. "City Treasurer's office?"

He says it as if he means to say, You have heard of him, I presume, the City Treasurer? I bristle.

"Well, okay, then," I snap at him. I don't mean to, but ... And we were just having fun, a minute ago! Weren't we? What's happening? Why—

"See you later, Leslie," Ben says, his voice clipped. He knocks on the City Treasurer's door and enters, without waiting for a response.

"Okay," I say, and kick an imaginary stone down the hall with my shoe.

≈

So far, attempts to be amazing friends with Ben again have been a bit of a bust. But my superhero name isn't Persistencia for nothing. In an effort to step up my game, I propose a board game night to Andy and April, who are of course all for it, provided I bring them takeout dinner.

We eat pizza (with extra cheese to make up for all that salad I've been having) and then set up a game of Monopoly. I've chosen Monopoly because it takes super long to play, and if I can get Ben to play at all, then I don't want this night to end too soon …

"Hey," I say, super-casual, "what about Ben? Is he here? We could maybe play mixed doubles. You know, the more the merrier."

There are no mixed doubles in Monopoly of course, but I don't think Andy knows what that means anyway, so he's delighted by the suggestion.

"Yeah! That sounds awesome!"

April looks at me like I'm a particularly interesting painting in a gallery.

Then she calls, "Beeeen!" in a voice that carries through the house and possibly also through the two neighbouring ones.

"What?" he says, irritably, emerging from his bedroom.

"Hi Ben. How's it going?"

"Oh. Hey."

He doesn't look particularly happy to see me. I'm thankful when April says, "We're gonna play this game. Come on, Ben, let's go."

"Oh, yeah, you know, I'm actually kind of…"

"Naw, man! Come on, we know you're not that busy," Andy says. "Plus, we need like another person. Two boys, two girls. Hey! This is like a double—"

"No, no, Andy, it's not," I say before he can drop the potentially fatal last word. "It's just four friends hanging out. Having fun. Blowing off steam. Together. So nobody has to hang out alone together, just the two of them…" Argh, what am I saying? I want to sink into a hole in the ground. I'm pretty sure I'm blushing. Maybe my makeup hides it. I hope so.

"Yeah! Cool," Andy says. "Anyway. And we did agree that you wouldn't hide out in your room all the time anymore by yourself."

"We didn't—"

"Yes. We're brothers, dude! So it's like, 'implied' and everything. Obviously."

"Yeah, Ben. Obviously," April says.

Ben throws up his arms. "You know what, fine," he says. He doesn't sound like it's fine with him at all, but he does take a seat. I wonder why. Maybe it's just because he's being ambushed, or because April's tone brooks no argument, or, just maybe, because he might actually kind of want to spend time with me. Who knows?

I grin and throughout the game keep trying to gauge Ben's mood, but he is impenetrable. He doesn't say anything, beyond what's necessary to play the game, though he doesn't seem not to be enjoying himself either, if that makes any sense. Especially as the game goes on and April builds hotels everywhere from Kentucky Avenue to Park Place. Ben owns the cheaper properties and can't compete with her enormous riches, but his posture does become more relaxed, I think. He uncrosses his arms and puts his right leg on his left knee. Andy is only interested in the railways, and I own hardly anything. When I was little and my dad defeated me like this, I would throw the board across room and vow never to play again. Tonight I hardly care. I have a larger mission that distracts me.

"All right losers, it was fun crushing you. Andy and I are gonna go make out now," April declares after two hours.

She stands looking at Ben and he looks back at her and I could swear he almost … grimaces. Then April drags Andy away, and this should be it. The moment I've been waiting for. I can't mess this up, not like that moment at Sue's or in the hallway. I try to think of a way to start, but it's really, really hard. Ben's not looking at me. He takes the dice and houses and April's barrage of red hotels and returns them to the box. Folds up the board and places it inside, too. The whole thing takes light years to accomplish. He's so neat. His eyes remain focused on the table. I sit across from him … and … and …

"So," he says, and clears his throat as he closes the Monopoly box. He rubs the palms of his hands across his khakis, then looks up at me. "I … I'm actually going to go to bed, too. I think." His eyes are guarded, like he's putting up a roadblock to his thoughts. I can't figure it out at all.

"Oh."

"Yeah. So."

"Well, okay. Great. I just— This was fun, right?"

"Oh. Uh huh. I mean, sure."

"Hanging out together. As friends, of course, I get that now. Absolutely. And I just … Ben, I wanted to say that. That I understand." I smile at him, tentatively, and adjust the edges of my sweater.

"Yes." He clears his throat. "That's … um … alright."

It's infinitesimal. Almost not there. But if you look very, very closely, you can see that there is a smile starting, just starting, at the left corner of his mouth and around the edges of his eyes. It's not much. But it's something. I can't help it. I grin in response, too much and too big. Like an idiot. But I don't care. "Great. Well, okay," I say, getting up. "I will see you around then. Again. Soon. Looking forward to it."

When I’m at the front door, letting myself out while Ben hovers in the living room, I feel so good that I can't resist turning back.

"Friends, right?" I say.

"Oh. Uh huh."

And I practically skip to my car. It may not be much, but it was enough, for now. Just the germ cell of a smile. That's okay. It's especially okay because I know that next week, I'll have an ace up my sleeve that he won't be able to resist. More than one ace, in fact. 193 aces. Ben doesn't stand a chance.

≈

For all the ways I'd envisioned the summit would go—and I'll admit that while most of them just had to do with Ben and me saving the world from starvation, there might have been one or two scenarios that were slightly less than chaste (And hey, it's not like I tried to think up those! I can't help it that global politics is pretty much the super sexiest thing ever, so sexy in fact that even Ben couldn't resist it, just as I predicted ...)—I never imagined a Danish-Peruvian war.

I never thought that could happen.

I also never thought I'd feel so … aroused.

"Oh, that's interesting. The resolution passes, with flying colors. Denmark is formally condemned. Bam!" Ben throws down the microphone and stalks off and I'm next. As I yell about the international gang of thugs and stupid tides I vaguely perceive that we're the adults here and that China and Russia are rolling their eyes at us.

But what I perceive far more acutely is a rush of … desire. Urgent, pressing desire that will not be ignored. What I want, more than anything, is for Ben, cocky, smug, asshole Ben, the dishonorable delegate from Peru, to march his stupid ass over here and use that astonishing force of his to throw me into the nearest wall.

"I will burn you to the ground, Denmark," he'd growl.

He'd pull my hair and kiss me rough enough to bruise. I'd hiss.

"Not if I drown you first, Peru," I'd whisper dangerously in his ear, squeezing his crotch a little too hard. He would whimper.

But we're just friends, I tell myself. Colleagues. Something like that. And nothing like … nothing like two people hornier than … than characters in bad, kinky porn. I imagine. Not that I … well …

It's no use. The evidence speaks for itself. It doesn't let up. We're riling up our respective coalitions—mine is Denmark, Botswana and the moon and I don't even care how ridiculous that is … I can feel Ben behind me. He is a source of heat. A slow burn. I sweat. And I know he keeps throwing angry glances at my back, because each one, as it hits me, is a solar flare, setting off a sharp spike in my body temperature, sending a surge of arousal through my spine that radiates painfully right down to my toes. Aaah! Oh. God. Damn. It. Ben. I'm distractingly, embarrassingly wet…

What it takes, finally, is Denmark and Peru getting expelled from the United Nations. Only that has the effect of a cold shower on me.

≈

That night, I have a beautiful dream that turns sour.

"Hey," Ben says, coming up behind me. He puts his arms around my midsection and draws me close. Skin on skin. I feel safe. Happy. He smiles against my neck before he kisses it.

"Hey! Where are we?"

We're surrounded by a strange white mist, sort of like clouds.

"Nowhere."

"We're not in Pawnee anymore?"

"Leslie, Pawnee doesn't exist anymore."

"Oh. What happened to it?"

He lifts an arm and sweeps some of the mist aside. In the distance, a blackened, smoldering city comes into view.

"Who— why— Who would have done that?"

My cheeks are wet with tears. Pawnee. My hometown. I loved it.

"You did," he says, peppering my jawline with kisses.

"I … why? Why would I? I wouldn't have done that! I would never, ever… tell me why!"

I struggle to turn around in his arms and look at him, but Ben just holds me closer. He sighs. He doesn't seem particularly agitated or concerned. Just mildly frustrated that I'm interrupting his caresses.

"You made a choice."

"What choice?"

"It doesn't matter now," he says, squeezing me still closer to him. Running his fingers across my nipples.

"It does matter," I say, and shove him away. "If that was my choice, then I don't want it anymore. I take it back!" I lift my head and shout, "I TAKE IT BACK!" into the mist.

And suddenly I'm in my own bed, back in Pawnee. And I'm not alone. Ben's still there with me. He climbs on top of me, kisses me deeply. I purr and he slides inside me.

Only, it's not him anymore. Ben's face melts—it's something like the effect when someone takes Polyjuice Potion in Harry Potter—and it's Justin who is inside me, moving fast, jerkily. A little too fast, a little too rough. I bite my lip.

Then Justin melts and I'm staring at someone's balding head. He looks up at me and it's Dave. I feel his weight on top of me. My right foot has fallen asleep. "This okay?" Dave asks, his voice strained.

Dave melts and turns into Mark, who's moving in and out of me with a businesslike rhythm. "Leslie Knope, who would have thought?" He grins. I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

Mark melts into Patrick who melts into Frank, and so on, until I'm in my college dorm and it burns and stings as John takes my virginity.

When I wake up, I feel on edge. Grumpy and dissatisfied with everything. The dream leaves me with a vague sense of dread that I can't put my finger on.

≈

It's ironic, isn't it? It used to be Chris who was keeping us apart, but these days it's practically only when he orders it that Ben and I spend time together. We have been working on the smallest park, which has been good. Things between us haven't been entirely what I would call normal, but there is a way he and I have of focusing on a project completely. I've done that for years on my own, and I'm pretty sure Ben has, too. I get this tunnel vision, to the point where I'm barely responsive to anything not related directly to the work. It's like my brain gets stuck on it, this one thing I have to accomplish, and I live it and nothing else, from the moment I wake up in the morning until I go to bed at night. When I'm in the zone like that, my friends usually get frustrated with me for not being able to live, breathe or talk about anything else.

With Ben, though, it's different. When we get into the groove on a project, we get into it together. We develop a shorthand for talking about certain things; a gesture here and there comes to stand for what would normally require five minutes of explanation. Long handshake-fistbumb-things just kind of happen. It's not weird. During those times, I never worry that he's bored or about what he thinks of me. We're in our own little bubble of purpose and focus, which is unlike the romantic bubble we were in when we started dating, but, in its own way, just as good.

This dynamic has also been around longer. We did this all the time in preparation for Harvest Fest, and I'm really pleased that we can still do it now. Sure, I feel kind of a weird strain when Chris says, "You two, when you work on a project together, are simply amazing", but that's nothing compared to the payoff, right? I think so.

And I don't know why I can't be right about anything lately, in Ben's eyes, but that seems to be the case. We can't date, okay. Then we can't be friends, and I'm being "obtuse" for not realizing as much. Well, sorry. But we can still get in the zone together, give our all to a project, as evinced by the proposal we've whipped up for the smallest park. Except that Ben doesn't want to do that, either.

"No, listen to me. After the smallest park wraps up I am going to ask Chris to take over all parks and rec business," he says and, bam! I'm freaking out.

≈

I knew I was sabotaging my work, I knew it even before Ann told me I was a steamroller with no brakes and a cement brick on the gas pedal. But I no longer cared. Or I cared, but I couldn't stop myself. What does Pawnee's tiniest park matter?!

Ann has gone now, and I'm sitting alone in my office. I feel like I'm the worst, and I'm trying to figure out how not to be. I also feel really, really bad, and I'm trying to figure out what I need to do to feel better.

I can't hold on to Ben, he is melting away. Farther and farther away. And I can't give up working for Pawnee, which means first and foremost working towards that city council seat. I want that seat. I want it so, so much. And I don't ever want to see that smoldering ghost town again, not even in a dream! Everything matters far too much—Ben and Pawnee and the city council seat—but if everything matters, then by the same token nothing matters at all, isn't that right?

No, thinking that nothing matters at all is just a sign of depression. Things do matter. They matter to me. A lot. What matters most?

I know what my mother would say. "Sweetheart, men come and go, but your work, that's yours for the shaping."

Well, thanks, mom. I don't go to her. I require a bit more nuance right now. I stay at my desk and I make a list.

Fact: City Council is my dream.

Fact: I am an awful steamroller.

Fact: I nearly ruined the smallest park.

Fact: I'm even crazier than Pawnee's public forum-goers.

Fact: This fact is a question. Why?

Fact: Because this has never happened before.

Fact: Because I've always been too busy with work to focus on break-ups before.

Fact: But not now. It's the opposite now. I'm too caught up with losing him to focus on work.

Fact: Ben

I hesitate. How do I put it into words?

             ... is important.

That doesn't quite capture it, no. But I know what I mean. I take a deep breath.

Conclusion:

I don't write it down. I pick up the phone. My hands tremble.

≈

I will never forget the look on his face right before he kisses me. The hunger. The thirst. I'm an oasis in the desert, and I sigh, welcoming him. His lips meet mine and our lips part for each other and his hands are in my hair and on my waist; we're clutching at each other, drawing each other closer closer closer. We fly close to the sun, and, like Icarus's wings, we melt. But not away. We melt into each other.