oh, mr president | H.S.

TWO: McPherson Square

"Power always thinks it has a great soul and vast views beyond the comprehension of the weak." - John Adams

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T W O : McPherson Square
O P H E L I A

"This place is awesome!" Charlotte could not restrain from barging in through the door of our new condo to view what we would be staying in. She volunteered to only carry a single box because the 'movers' could complete the heavy lifting. I observed as she ventured through the amenities of the living space, possibly visualizing the furniture we have yet to purchase.

        There were tiled granite flooring throughout the space, cream colored walls to balance with the wooden cabinetry, and shelves. The delicate white curtains hung in front of the large window, and from the fourth floor, the view was breathtaking. I was astonished by the amount of money my father must of spent on this, which makes obtaining the interview much more important than before. As I traveled further into the living room, I discovered a glass slider as a door for the bedroom section. I suppose Charlotte already located this feature, because the door was slid open and a fading voice could be heard.

"Fee, come look at this," My friend called out with a voice that weighed with volume. The tiling transferred to a cool, grey carpeting as I strolled to appear next to her frame that was attached to a grand window. The city of Washington, D.C. was simply magnificent in all of its elements. We had touched down in the capital of this fine country during the early hours of the evening. A day before the nerve-wrecking interview. The nation's capital building could be seen from the height, the dimmed lights that glistened over the river that attracted tourists nearly every day. I had no words to describe such a view.

"Are you excited for your interview tomorrow?" Charlotte detached herself from the window, her orbs to study my body language as I were to answer her question.

"No, I am nervous. If I don't get this job, my father is going to crucify me," The air that consumed clenched in the contractions of my throat, "Possibly literally."

"Relax, Ophelia. You were at the top of our class, graduating with a 4.3 grade point average. I don't know how that is possible, but you did it. You can do this," She flattened her palms on the crown of my shoulders, providing a little shake, "And if that doesn't work, you can use your good looks."

"Good looks won't get your far in this town, Charlotte."

Later that evening, Angela surprised us both with a whole order of furnishings for the condo. An interior designer, a local pleaser of elected officials and their homes, knocked on our door with a train of men to place the individual pieces of furniture inside all of the rooms. She reminded us of her name, Rebecca if I can recall correctly, almost three times before taking her leave. When midnight arrived, Charlotte and I found ourselves plopped on the couch, devouring a local eatery that delivered to the building. They sold delicious Italian cuisine, which was surely anyone's favorite.

"Tomorrow, you walk in there, confident," Charlotte swirled her fork full of spaghetti, "Which is the opposite of your entire personality, and own it."

"I don't know. I only hear my father's possible threats if I don't get the job." I digested half of my Stromboli, and rose from the couch to store it inside of the stainless steel fridge.

        "For once, Fee, forget about him. He's an old man with a bit of influence," She enforced, "Not to mention we are in an entirely different state or city or whatever."