All the people portrayed in this short story are entirely fictional. Any similarity they may bare to real life figures is purely coincidental.
The Secret Service filtered into my room and began searching every nook and cranny for a weapon or perhaps a miniature assailant. They were all clad in the same black suit and tie with the same bland and dull pair of shoes. Not that the clothing mattered, had they gone to a funeral dressed like clowns, their faces were so inexpressive that people would soon forget that they were even there.
I held my breath and waited, knowing that the cornucopia of colour would soon grace my presence and that was worth the wait. As I smoothed my hair back and straightened my ill-fitting t-shirt, the object of my desire entered.
‘Donald,’ I whispered.
And there he was with his golden hair and nostrils arching like a buffalo in heat.
‘Elon,’ he said, ‘it’s been too long.’
I let his smile fill in my soul as he held his hands out for me. The agents turned their backs as I approached him, either through professional curtesy or lustful jealousy. Our fingertips danced before unifying in a handshake. His hands were warm and pleasantly moist. Donald’s scent invaded then entwined with my own. My nose feasted on the burgeoning talcum powder aroma.
‘I was hoping to hear from you before your intelligence briefing,’ I said restraining the neediness in my voice.
My Donald shrugged, ‘I couldn’t. I had to spend time with DJ and also my wife Melanie.
I stuttered feeling the distance between us widening.
‘But I could have joined you and DJ and Melanie at the white House and when their backs were turned, we could have frolicked on the South Lawn and talked about our love of corporate personhood and flat tax rates.’
‘Elon, I didn’t want you to come to the White House.’
I felt the warmth and colour that had filled my cheeks moments earlier, drain away.
‘Why did you come down here?’ I asked.
‘To say goodbye,’ said Donald.
‘You don’t want me?’
‘No.’ the reply was curt for a man blessed with the most imaginative vocabulary. He turned and left followed by the smirking agents.
Donald would want me to swallow my pride, go gentle into the night but that was never my way. As the prophet Bette Midler once said, “Some say love, it is a razor.”
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