“Hillary,” she heard from behind her. It was Obama.
She stiffened with jealousy. Lucky him, able to wear a suit. Oh, how she envied him, for his popularity and the fact that he was a man.
“Yes, Mr. Obama?” She answered, stifling her anger.
“Hillary, you can call me Barack.”
She turned around and forced one of her fake smiles. “And why would I want to do that?”
He sighed and tossed his head. “Why are you always like this, Hillary? I was going to congratulate you on the debate, but you . . . you always pull this sarcastic attitude on me.”
She gave up on the fakeness, then. “I don’t know. Why are you always so sweet? When you’re out there, heck, when you’re in here, you always make it seem like we’re friends or something.”
“Aren’t we?”
“No, Barack, and I don’t see why you can’t understand that,” she said. She didn’t feel like this right now. She felt like kicking off her shoes and passing out. It was ridiculous.
He was silent. He stared at her. “If I get nominated, do you want to be my vice president?”
It was a nice thing for him to say, but she sighed instead of thanking him. “What, did you and Bill Richardson get in a fight or something?”
“What?”
“Wasn’t he going to be your vice?”
“No. Why would I want that goofy New Mexican?” He smiled.
She smiled, too. The thing about Barack was that he was hard to hate for a long time. “I suppose so, if you’d really like that.”
“I would,” he said. “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you, also, Hillary.”
“What’s that?” she headed for her dressing room, and gestured for him to follow.
He followed. “Well, um, I know that we don’t always get along, but, um . . . ” he stuttered ungracefully.
She narrowed her eyes. She knew that Barack could be a sneaky, sneaky guy, and it was hard to tell if he was acting. Why on earth would such a wonderful speaker like him feel the need to hesitate? “Yes?” she pried, opening the door to her dressing room.
“I…never mind.”
“No, I want to know now.”
He sat down on the couch in her dressing room. “I feel like it would hinder what little relationship we have.”
She sat in the chair across from him and started taking off her makeup. “I doubt something you would say would make that happen.”
He sighed. But then, instead of speaking, he stood, and in a swift movement, he was standing behind her. “Hillary, I don’t know how to tell you . . . ” his hands moved to her shoulders.
She stiffened at his touch. His hands were so strong yet gentle, just like his words. Could it be . . . ? “Tell me what, Barack?” she nearly whispered.
“We’ve . . . even though we’re opponents, I feel like I’ve never been closer to anyone in my life,” he said.
“Nor have I,” she agreed.
His hands gently squeezed her shoulders. It was enough to drive her mad.
She quickly turned around and stood up, knocking his hands away. “If you feel how I feel, Barack, just tell me, tell me!”
“I think I do,” he said. In moments, his hands were back, holding her arms like he’d never let go. “I’ve fallen for you quicker than the youth of America have fallen for my campaign.”
“Oh, Barack! Why?”
“I can’t say. Perhaps I have a thing for arrogant, white women.”
“Perhaps you do. Perhaps I have a thing for overly popular, half-black men.”
He grabbed her and kissed her like she’d never been kissed before.
The PFLD 