I awoke the next morning with a crick in my neck, one that I couldn’t work out with a few nice stretches. It was still early in the morning, and I realized I had the entire day at my feet—a day during which I could create whatever world I wanted. I didn’t have to go into the office; I didn’t even have to watch the news. Although, of course, I would. Just to see how the polls were doing.
I grabbed some of my running supplies and I sped downstairs, stretching my neck in a sort of semicircle. The sun shone brightly on me, even in the 7 a.m. morning. Most D.C. people weren’t awake yet, choosing to spend their Saturday mornings sleeping next to their lovers, in their cozy beds. But I was so different, I reminded myself. I had so many different ideals, so many things I wanted for my life.
As I sped toward the nearby park, I felt the blood pumping heavy in my veins. I would make it out of this strange, half-hearted love affair with Xavier. I wouldn’t go to lunch with him anymore, unless others were there and it involved the campaign, of course. I wouldn’t put my life or his marriage or our careers in jeopardy just because of this deep passion pulsing in my gut. It wasn’t worth it to me.
I rushed along, feeling the wind in my face, through my long brown hair. I’d continually felt a desire to run the past few weeks, but I’d spent every waking minute at the office, poring over ratings, writing speeches, and arguing with one employee or another. I was a tough boss, and I was earning their respect very slowly, very surely. I was just a 29-year-old woman—someone their daughter’s age, perhaps.
But God, was I so much more.
I rounded the corner and found myself face-to-face with a young couple, both of whom were holding hands and walking through the park. They looked like they’d been up all night. Their faces were brimming with such lust for each other. They gazed into each other’s eyes, speaking only in whispers. I wondered what that love was like, in a small way. I wondered if I was missing something. As I sped by them, I suddenly lurched to a stop and peered back, watching their slow and subtle movements through their morning. It was like, for them, time had stopped; they were unworried about their careers, about their futures. They were continually wrapped in that non-spinning world—the one that I had joined for only a second, there in the Oval Office.
I shuddered and spun back around, back into the world. I revved forward and allowed myself, only for a moment, to consider a world in which we were meant to be together—in which we were normal, beautiful people who were allowed to make our own choices and live our own lives.
But what kind of life was that, anyway?
Finally, I reached my home once more, feeling the sweat pulse down my body. I removed my clothes swiftly, tossing them on my shining wooden floor. I rubbed at my back, at my side. The pangs of stress lingered on, making me feel older than my years.
The water that gleamed on my body was so fresh, so vibrant. I rubbed at my scalp, feeling my hair as it oozed down my back and my muscles. I captured it with shampoo and felt it liven beneath my fingertips. I thought, gruffly, about what Xavier was doing right then. Was he, himself, in the shower? Difficult to imagine a president in the shower, thinking about the strain of the world he controlled—all the lives that were lost across the great country, every day. Weird to think that the president was able to take a moment for himself, to allow himself such feeling.
Of course, as I washed my face, I remembered that he had sought that feeling in me, through that kiss. I was his escape, I knew, from the reality of his marriage, from the reality of the terrible power he’d claimed above everyone. I wondered if power was really all that it should be; I wondered if everything he’d sacrificed was worth it to him.
The rest of the day, I lived in a sort of dreamland of emotion, of feeling. I gave myself this day to think about him, I decided. And then, every other subsequent day would be null, would be rooted in career prospects and campaigning. I wouldn’t even allow him to think I ever considered him a prospect. I practiced looking at myself in the mirror with dead eyes, and I promised myself that I would only look at Xavier this way—with no inner turmoil, with no feeling.
I propped myself back on the couch with a movie and popcorn. It was late in the evening at this point, and I realized that I hadn’t called anyone or spoken to anyone the entire day. I considered calling my mother for only a moment—that woman who all but ruled Philadelphia with her bake sales and her quiltmaking (what a different and strange child I had been for her!) But I imagined something in my voice would give away my adoration for someone; something in my voice would render me weak. She could smell the weakness, I knew.
I sighed, taking a small bite of popcorn and diving into the old, ‘30s film. I liked living in this world, if only for a moment. I knew it was silly: the passion that drove each character to fall in love over the course of two hours.
Suddenly, a heard my phone begin to buzz in my portfolio—a portfolio I hadn’t opened and a phone I hadn’t checked all morning. My heart constricted in my chest and I rushed up, nearly spilling the popcorn all over the floor. I tapped toward the portfolio and knew, suddenly, that if Xavier was calling—if it truly was him—then I had to answer it.
I had to.
I brought my hand around the vibrating beast and tugged it up, feeling all the clutter on the inside of my bag hound around my fingers. I gazed at the number for a moment, with the name: JASON. I smiled at it and placed it on the table, allowing it to buzz and buzz and buzz until it exhausted itself. I imagined Jason somewhere in one of those grubby apartments, yelling into the phone. I hoped it wasn’t for work, of course. But even if it were work, it could wait. It just could.
I stretched my arms over my head and yawned, feeling aches and pains coursing throughout my body. I licked my lips for a moment, reaching back toward the popcorn and targeting my eyes back into movie world.
But the phone began to buzz once more, suddenly. I growled, spinning back around, ready to answer it just to tell Jason if he ever hit on me again, I’d report him. By God, I would.
But the name was different.
This time, the name read: MR PREZ.
I placed it down on the table and allowed it to buzz once, then twice. I felt aches throughout my entire body. I shuddered, so worried. Why was he calling? Was he calling me to reprimand me about the other evening—about running out on him?
Finally, I picked it up. I swallowed and let out a meek: “Hello?”
“Amanda. Miss Martin. How are you?”
I sputtered for a moment. “I’m fine,” I forced myself to speak.
“I noticed you didn’t come into the office today.”
I rubbed my temple, feeling it pulse beneath my fingers. “I had a lot on my plate, you know.”
“Right,” he said quietly. I could hear him sitting on that squeaky chair in the Oval Office. I pictured him putting his feet on the desk—something he only did when he talked to someone he felt comfortable with on the phone. “Listen. I was wondering if you had changed your mind about having dinner with me. Just a business dinner, of course. Something very professional.”
I thought for a moment, remembering the dream world I had created in my mind over the previous few hours. I gazed up at the television screen as it illustrated two 1930s characters speaking wildly, tossing their arms through the air.
“Just a professional dinner, correct?” I asked him then.