The convention is over, and someone else has won.

There is confetti all over the floor of the convention hall and in the corner there is a discarded "Bartlet for America" button that had seen better days, days when Bartlet himself was running and accepting and speechifying. That's one of the things about political conventions; they are as much reunions for those who recall old victories and the one time they are really able to ignore old defeats.

Stuck to the floor not too far from the Bartlet button is a "Texans for Santos" sticker.

Yes, she thinks, not quite feeling a stab of regret. Texans, and New Yorkers, and Californians. And so many in between.

She's willing to bet there was never a "Texans for Russell" sticker.

She starts walking, not really going anywhere because there isn't anywhere to be. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not for at least a few more days. She can breathe, make decisions, clean up. She is tied to nothing.

That thought doesn't linger, though maybe it should and maybe she should enjoy this moment of freedom, of calm, of independence. Her fingers itch to do something, however, and she knows she won't stay idle for long. She never could bear it and she knew tomorrow she'd be looking for the next big thing.

Confetti is sticking to the soles of her smart black heels, the heels she bought with the last White House paycheck she would ever get. She had gone shoe shopping, she told herself, to celebrate the end of one part of her life and the beginning of the next. Isn't that what women do? Celebrate by shopping?

Is celebrate another word for mourn?

A few volunteers linger in the hall, some picking up discarded signs, some on walkie-talkies organizing the clean-up.

Donna stops just near a Connecticut delegation's marked section, stooping to pick up a handmade "Bob Russell - Our President" sign. Her lips tugged apart in a reluctant grin. It was pretty funny. Bingo Bob, the President.

The campaign had been pale. Even the guy in the chicken suit seemed to have emerged from a fog and the Donna who had given the pundits something new to laugh about was the mistress of that fog.

Bartlet's campaign was conducted in the sunlight. It was vivid and it was alive. Donna had forgotten what that felt like. She saw it tonight, in Josh's eyes. He was his old self and he was somewhere right now enjoying this as he ought. She thanked him silently for not gloating, for not rubbing it in.

She'd picked another gomer, this one coming with better money and more prestige and Will Bailey buying her dinner. This thought, too, brings a grin, even a short laugh.

It might have been catching. Somewhere in the hall a volunteer finds a "John Hoynes - Tomorrow's Leader" sign and laughes over it with a friend.

Donna leaves the Russell sign on one of Connecticut's chairs and walks out of the hall, and when she gets outside it is dark and there are people still celebrating and not quite ready to leave. She still has confetti on her shoe, and it looks impossibly bright. Tiny pieces of colored paper, the Oz to her
Kansas appearing without the blessed warning of a twister.

"Hey, Santos is going to run with Leo McGarry, can you believe that?!"

A young woman (impossible that she was probably 23, 24....Donna remembers 23 and had she really been that effusive, that eager?) is beaming expectantly and Donna feels she should answer.

She has no words for this ghost before her, however, so she just nods and turns to walk away.

She almost doesn't hear Josh's voice, and she almost doesn't turn around.

But she does, and she will, and this is the real new beginning.