oh, mr president | H.S.

NINE: Elizabeth Yang

"There is nothing more corrupting, nothing more destructive of the noblest and finest feelings of our nature, than the exercise of unlimited power." - William Henry Harrison

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N I N E : Elizabeth Yang
O P H E L I A

         Patterned reminders of grips, and physical contact decorated my framework violently. The print of his fingertips masked my skin, painted with the random instances where goosebumps did not fail to raise, and cause for curiosity from my acquaintances around the office. Charlotte did not completely remember the sequence of last night; her mind has jumbled most of the evening because of her intoxication, and I was grateful she did not interrogate me until I shared the details. She practically fell, like a dead zombie, to her mattress the moment the collection of our heels commenced through the door that was repaired after his visit. Tammy caught a taxi to her apartment building ten minutes from Senate Square, and I was sure a rather delicious hangover would be in her future.

The twirl of my White House pen between my digits did relieve pressure of the kiss, but I could not stop myself from peering at the wooden panels that constructed my door. What if he were to enter and demand for us both to forget the entire endeavor? A part of me did not desire to, but he had left with me no choice. The small analog clock on the corner of my desk ticked consciously; each second's measurement craving confusion into my hypothalamus. Processing my daily functions of his speech writing could not continue, whether I liked it or not. Impatient because of my mindless distractions, I jolted to my feet from my bent position to pace the room. Heels measured the center, circling as if I somehow participated in a child's nursery rhyme. Maybe it is best to forget it, I thought, it is already eleven a.m., and he hasn't bothered to say not a word.

"Ms. Kensington," I hadn't noticed the parting of the door as a young lady - predictably in her late teens - stood in the division of my office, and the hall. I address her with an artificial simper, the pads of my fingers fussing with one another. "The president would like you to be in his dressing room. He would like your assistance immediately."

"Dressing room?"

"He is in preparation of an interview for the morning news program. Channel five," The lady's attire resembled an outfit you would see in a televised movie, the cliché neutral colors that were opposite to the appropriate shade she needed to wear. It was no different than most of the last few days either; I swear that I belong in a starring role. I drifted to a foreign land, but the snap of the young lady's fingers spoiled my limited imagination as of this morning. "We do need to hurry, ma'am."

"I apologize."

The interview's location was in the presidential east room, but the furnishings were dusted from their antique use and adjusted for the televised program. Waves of human beings flashed in a hurry, tending to the needs of their superiors as if their life depended on the simple altercations. The young lady led me to the large sectional room for the president with his seal plastered on the front of the door. Her knuckles met to the surface, a murmur followed for our entrance. My palms focused on the crises on my midnight slacks that were put naturally from the amount of sitting I was conducting throughout the morning. I attempted to flatten the wrinkles, but it was no use for the last minute arrangement of my clothing.

A large director's chair faced a vanity, the dim bulbs the source of lightning. His figure was seated, hands roaming over the rich, black suit that was paired with a simple sapphire tie that accompanied his tender image. The president took heave of my emergence into the room, a flicker of his index finger to whisk the female dusting particles of makeup to his previous flawless complexion. She paused, her sneakers dashing for the door in order to prevent the powerful man from growing upset at her reluctance. The room died down in intensity, the creaks of his chair as he turned, breeding the strain of nerves to escalate in metaphorical cold sweat.