I got on an elevator in a skyscraper. A man in a suit stepped onto the elevator with me. I pushed the button for the tenth floor. I turned and saw that the man in the suit was using a breast pump. I could not see the part that attached to him, just the tubing and the bottles that collect the milk. In the ten seconds that it took us to reach the tenth floor, he filled both 5 oz bottles. WOW! I thought admiringly. He is really productive! The man was Barack Obama.
13 May 2008
I was in my dining room with Barack and he was writing his date of birth on a piece of paper. I noticed that the year was 1974 and I was shocked -- he had been lying about his age! I didn't confront him about it, but rather got up and left the house.
08 May 2008
I was on a bus coming home from University and Barack came and sat beside me. I don't know how I knew it was him, because I don't follow the election at all. He was wearing a dirty suit and smelled bad. I was reading and he asked me what I was reading. I showed him the book: The Lord of the Rings. I've never seen that movie! he exclaimed. Then he gave me his business card from his wallet. It was really cheap, like something printed off a school computer, and Senator was misspelled. He got up to get nachos from the bus concession and I put my backpack on his chair so he wouldn't sit by me again.
I’m at a Harvard Law School alumni event and manage to get up the nerve to sit next to Barack. I extend my hand and say Good afternoon, Senator. I introduce myself and say, Class of 2006. He says, Barack Obama, class of 1991. For a moment we share a conspiratorial smile, like we’ve played a private game in which he's just another fellow alum. Then he turns away. I can feel his tiredness, his desire to stop moving, to breathe, to rest.
After the event I’m walking towards Harvard Square and I see him walking towards the T station. He’s wearing an Oxford cloth shirt and slacks, and is pulling a roller suitcase. I smile and ask if he would like a ride to the airport. He says he’s fine with the subway. I tell him it’s no trouble, that my car is right around the corner.
Then he is in my bed wearing blue striped boxers. I have a perfect apartment in Harvard Square (not so in real life!). The room has a bohemian look, all earth tones and Indian prints. The afternoon sun is coming through the window above the bed.
I remember the intense conversation we shared, and think about how I offered him my bed for a nap. We're talking less intensely now. I’m reclining on the side of the bed, not touching him, but am very close and the attraction is palpable. We fall silent and our eyes meet. Then we kiss very softly.
I can feel his desire to relax, to be himself, to lose himself here. I realize this could never be kept a secret. I know how disastrous it would be for the man about to be our country’s first black president to have an affair with a white woman twenty years his junior. I cannot risk any chance of being the woman who will cost our country his presidency. I put my hand on his chest and say, This is getting really dangerous really fast.
05 May 2008
Barack and I were at a large gathering, perhaps the Democratic convention, which was held in a huge, ornate, complex, dark-ish, official building like the Capitol. We were sitting together at the back of the hall in the last row, leaning our chairs against the wall as we listened to speeches. He put his arm around my shoulders like we were kids on a movie date. It was a nice feeling, but at the same time I was wondering if he had a record of womanizing, since I knew he was married and had seen his wife in the crowd.
Then I realized my dress had fallen down to my waist. I was a little uncomfortable about being exposed, but no one noticed since we were covered by a blanket. He then stretched out behind me, full-length, spoon-like, and wrapped his arms around me. It felt warm and protective and slightly sexual, but I said, I'm sorry, I really can't do this. Michelle would have me for lunch. I pulled my dress back on and excused myself, saying I had to take my cat (who had appeared on my lap) home.
03 May 2008
A chubby young black boy thought I was Obama, and wanted me to sign a postcard. I had to tell him no. He looked mildly taken aback, withdrew the postcard and then, with a tiny solemn smile, held out a handwritten note, rolled up so all I could see was the first word. I woke up wondering what the heck he wanted me to read.