Save the Escape

Saying No To Nihilism

Well, this certainly isn't going to be how I tell the story.

I can't say I didn't expect some form of rejection at my offer. I did, even in my past lives my position as President did nothing to help the fact that I still had to work for requited emotions and I'd only found it effortlessly once; when I wasn't even worth as much as I am now. It made me come to understand that women, at least the women I've met, generally like being chased around like the roadrunner the moment a man, powerful or not, expresses interest. It was exhausting.
But I certainly wasn't expecting her to burst out laughing in my face. I kept an unsteady smile on my face, it wasn't the most pleasant thing to be laughed at after giving such a proposal.

I let her get it out of her system, still holding my smile in place. "Are you done yet?"

Her lips still quivered as she held a finger up at me, taking in deep breaths and wiping away...tears.

"Ahhh. That was great. Okay, I'm done." She says with an unremorseful look on her.
"Mind letting me in on what was so funny about my offer? You see, I like retelling my best jokes." She shakes her head, still fighting the will to laugh some more it seems.

"Oh please don't be offended, Mister Fatah." She pulls out a bottle of water and takes a sip. Bold. "Your offer is very exciting, in more ways than one."

"But...?"

"But, I can't exactly see myself going for 'dinner' with a barely legal teenager, even if he is the President." She says frankly, "You're closer to my younger brother's age than mine."

She shrugs as I stare on at her, "Doesn't that feel weird for you? Wouldn't you prefer someone...younger?"
I sigh and massage my temples. I could feel a headache coming on, it seemed this good day was taking a turn for the worse.

"Miss Leriva, how old are you?" I ask, unable to keep up my smile as my head started throbbing.

She hesitated, her eyebrows raised at me, trying to discern my motive, "I am turning twenty-nine soon, why?"
I let on a weak smirk and snort, "Twenty-nine, well you aren't as old as you've made yourself out to be. But even then, as a twenty-nine-year-old, do you not find it odd that your first inkling, when asked for dinner by a man nine years younger than you are, is that he wants to have sex with you?"

Her eyes widen as she makes the connections. It's my turn to laugh.

"I certainly hope you haven't thought the same of men younger than I am I would be a shame of you end up being seduced by a child." I ignore the splitting headache in favour of rubbing this in.

"Fine," she resigns to her loss, "I'll go with you to dinner. But I want something else."

I raise an eyebrow at this, "What could be better than handling my stories?"

"I don't want to be the President's favourite anything. That ruins my integrity as a reporter. If I handle everything that's about you it slowly starts to be seen as propaganda." She explains.

I pout, holding my head on the back of my fingers as I make puppy-dog eyes at her, "But you're already my favourite. Favourite cougar." She growls at me and I chuckle, "So what do you want instead?"

She smiles slyly, and I know it isn't something petty, "Well, I'm out of a job and you need good press and journalism, especially for the beginning of your regime. You're still quite young and I wouldn't be wrong to assume there will be power plays in the near future."

I nod, "Yes, you wouldn't be wrong to assume such. So what are you implying? That I hire you as press secretary? You realize that position is merely ceremonial."