Madam President ✓

108. Darrel

Darrel
January 2oth, 2021

I groan. My alarm reads 5:30 am, a blaring noise coming from it that makes me want to throw the thing. I picture it shattering into a million pieces and almost smile.

Today should be an easy one. I have nothing on my agenda but the inauguration- even my daily briefing's been cancelled. Of course I'll be informed immediately if there are any major world developments- but even the Middle East has been surprisingly peaceful for weeks now. Like my national security advisors said: Something is coming, we just don't know what or where from.

There was, at first-  some debate between secret service and the inaugural committee on whether or not hosting congress and the cabinet at the same time was safe, but they all cockily agreed on one thing by the end of that day: None of our enemies have the guts to try something like that knowing what the consequences would be.

And in the very, very unlikely event they do- my Secretary of State will be holed up in her apartment building while her official, public schedule states that she's in New York.

I aggressively slam a fist against the top of my clock so I don't have to deal with being woken up by my security detail and roll over to face my wife. She's not exactly my favorite person- in fact I hate her at times for how willing she is to throw her morals out the window to cover her own ass, but she's been tolerable this past week. I feel a twinge of guilt.

I've been with the woman laying beside me for almost twenty years- yet that didn't stop me from sleeping with someone whose name I didn't even know at my best friend's birthday party in New York City seventeen years ago. It didn't stop me from initiating a months long affair with a congressional candidate- Tanya Clark, who did end up winning her election.

  Her and I may not have agreed on a lot. I'm certainly a more moderate Democrat- while she's as far left as you can possibly get, but we didn't talk politics.  We connected on a more personal level that I ever did with my wife- the mother of my child and person I'm pretty much only with because of how bad the optics of a divorce look in the political world.

"How are you gonna keep the world in a peaceful state if you can't even keep your marriage together?" I imagine a reporter asking.

  Our breakup just a few weeks ago was so confusing I don't think either of us could tell who broke up with who. I started it- but she finished it and I think that counts for something?

  "Time already?" My wife says, her voice muffled by the pillow she's buried her face in.

  "Yep." I mumble, squinting through the dark room to find the underwear I wore to bed last night. I stumble the few feet to our connected bathroom, where they've somehow managed to get tangled around the knob.

  I've just barely pulled it up my legs before John- our night shift head of security and Lynn's deputy, is knocking on our door. My wife sits up, holding the bedsheets tight to her chest.

  "Sir- your cosmetology team is here." He avoids looking at her. If you're in the secret service long enough, you see just about everything.

  "Already?" I frown. "They weren't supposed to come in until seven today."

  "They wanted to have time to set up and get to all three of you without rushing." He shrugs. "And since you did give them clearance I had to let em' in. Do you wish to retract that cl-"

  "No." I shake my head. "Just tell em' we need a minute."

  "Yes sir." He nods. I yawn, trying to slap myself awake. If there's a single day my entire eight year presidency I need to pretend I'm not sleep deprived- it's today. The entire world will be watching.