Universe of Soulmates

"Scars on My Heart"

"Mr. President!"

"Mr. President!"

"Mr. President!"

"Mr. President!"

"Mr. President!"

"Mr. President!"

My head swivels to look at every photographer and journalist begging for a comment or picture of me. There's a lot to being President of the United States and, to my misfortune, it also includes getting mobbed by paparazzi.

"Come on, Mr. President." My chief of staff, Willis Marquis, then gets rid of the mob of people surrounding me. "Get out before I have them do it for me." As soon as Willis points to the Secret Service men right behind me, and the dozen (probably more if I bothered to count) photographers scatter without a second thought.

"So, we have a two hour flight, then a meeting with the Governor of California, a press session with him, and then you'll head to the USC Children's Hospital. Your daughter should be recovering there now." My daughter, who I had with my only ex-wife (we're divorced because I realized I couldn't love her the way she deserved), was in a horrible car crash and needed a few surgeries by a specialized surgeon to get better. I can't imagine what her soulmate must have felt when it happened. She, unfortunately, was on the wrong end of a bus going twenty miles an hour that didn't see her until it was far too late.

"Can you call them when we land to make sure everything went well with the surgeries? Just to give me peace of mind?" I know Willis will do it, but asking only makes me feel better about it.

"Of course, sir." Writing down another few notes, I climb into Air Force One, feeling a searing pain in my bicep that doesn't fade instantly, or even within the next minute. My soulmate, whoever it is, has a horrible taste for getting burned. Quite a lot. Luckily, all I wear are suits and long sleeve sweaters, because I couldn't tell you how many burns I have that are in varying stages of healing. If I had a choice, I'd rather just choose to feel the pain rather than see it on my body. "Do you need some burn cream?"

"Unfortunately." The moment Willis pulls the tube of burn cream out of her purse, I sigh in relief.

"What does your soulmate even do to get these burns?" Willis asks, but I couldn't possibly imagine it's anything particularly safe. Willis' soulmate is pretty tame, the only harm that comes his way is paper cuts, or fake tears from cutting onions.

"I'd give a lot to figure that out, but I doubt I will. I'd be lucky to meet them, much less know why there are burns and scars across my body." Willis is the only one, outside of my wife, that knows what kind of pain my soulmate puts me through.

"Well, you should get some rest while we're on this plane for the next couple hours. You have no meetings, and no excuses for not getting some sleep." When Willis makes that kind of argument, it's difficult to say no, especially after a lack of sleep the last two nights from hearing about my daughter's accident. She's already nine, and I can't help but feel like a little bit of a letdown in the dad department, being 3,000 miles away and rarely ever talking to her. At least there's some solace knowing she's never bombarded by the press because she has her mother's last name. It's not like my last name is exactly a common one.

The only reason I don't wake up because of the plane landing is because I smell food first. There's definitely some truth in the saying, "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." The other half of the reason I woke up was because someone told me there was food.

"Mr. President, here's lunch. Please ring the bell here," The flight attendant pointed to what seemed to be a doorbell, "if you need anything else. I'll come to pick up your dishes before we land." It's almost odd to see a male flight attendant, but it's also nice to know America is slowly approaching job equity. Slowly might be an over-exaggeration—turtle-paced is a better word for it. After all, it's been a hundred fifty year fight that I, and several of my predecessors, have been combatting.