She sat at her vanity mirror and unpinned the wiglet that lent more drama to her upswept mane.
He paced between the antique sleigh bed and the silk-draped windows overlooking the snow-packed south lawn. As he slowly and mindlessly removed each carnelian stud and cufflink from his still-crisp tuxedo shirt, he searched every crevice and fold of his brain for the right words.
“Baby?”
“Yeah,” she answered, removing the last of the two false eyelashes.
“Listen, Buster. I told you; it was completely accidental. How was I supposed to know that Vera Wang never uses prints? I wanted something red to honor our guests. The Post-it on the hanger didn’t say Alexander McQueen; it said Vera Wang. I loved it. I wore it. Get over it. Okay?”
She lied unflinchingly. It was just too late to explain to him why she had given in to her urge to thumb her nose at politics, just this once. She chose the one she liked best. She was tired of other people deciding what she should or should not wear.
“Yeah, well let me be clear. Whoever the person is who mixed up those Post-its is going to join the ranks of the unemployed first thing in the morning. Capiche?”
She unbuttoned that last button on his pleated shirt and slid the sleeves slowly from his muscular arms. She nibbled his earlobe and whispered in his ear.
He paced between the antique sleigh bed and the silk-draped windows overlooking the snow-packed south lawn. As he slowly and mindlessly removed each carnelian stud and cufflink from his still-crisp tuxedo shirt, he searched every crevice and fold of his brain for the right words.
“Baby?”
“Yeah,” she answered, removing the last of the two false eyelashes.
“What were you thinking? Out of all the choices you were presented for consideration, why did you pick that dress?”
She pushed her beautiful face into a scowl toward the mirror. She was feeling less than gregarious after all that glad-handing she had just done for four hours straight. The last thing she needed was to fight over a damned dress.
“Well,” she sighed, “all the other dresses were so…predictable. They didn’t have any flava, you know?”
“And you looked hotter than Halle Berry on her best day. You did. And there was flava, alright. Grape, strawberry, lemon…
“Very funny. I thought the print was stunning, especially with that one-shouldered design. Really showed off my collar bones, didn’t it?”
He had to admit the dress was …what’s that the kids say... off the hook. It was just created in the wrong time zone.
She swiveled and faced her handsome husband. She sighed the way a woman does when she knows she has screwed up, but isn’t willing to admit it.
She lied unflinchingly. It was just too late to explain to him why she had given in to her urge to thumb her nose at politics, just this once. She chose the one she liked best. She was tired of other people deciding what she should or should not wear.
He flashed that trademark smile and pulled her toward him.
She unbuttoned that last button on his pleated shirt and slid the sleeves slowly from his muscular arms. She nibbled his earlobe and whispered in his ear.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
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