My entry in Round 9 of NPR's "Three Minute Fiction" contest.
The prompt, write a 600 word story that revolves around about a President, real or fictional.
Amigo’s New Hope
Fresh coffee drips while the girls pick through yesterday’s magnificent May Day arrangement. Each places a spring bud behind her ear; a pale pink Primrose for Malia and a shock-white Ghost Flower for Sasha. Kisses and goodbyes fill up the kitchen and then they exit. Neither acknowledges me under the table, my chin propped along Father’s shoe; my legs lazily splayed.
From down here, he doesn't look well. The nervous tapping of his unoccupied shoe narrowly misses my ear. His face is tired and drawn like an old scarf. He leans down, tousles the scruff of my neck and slowly pulls straight the curls there, ten or twenty times. He’s out of sorts and distracted- hasn’t flung my tennis ball once across the room, though I patiently wait.
Mother rises, kisses his forehead and whispers slowly against it, “Be calm. Breathe. You’ll make the right decision.” His smile for her is awkward at best; painful at worst.
He’s walking now and I tether. I adore his gravelly voice in my ears and his large hand on my neck. In the sprawling circular office I rest near him, but out of reach. I've learned that if I want to stay in here, I must stay out of the way. People fire in and out throughout the morning. Mr. Gates and Mr. Biden arrive first and never leave. Mrs. Clinton comes in just before lunch, straight from the helicopter that seems daily to invade my yard. I can’t stand the violent, spinning blades; howl at them with thunder. Sensing my agitation, she is quick to me; spending a minute around my ears, eyes locked with mine. I like her immensely.
Food and tea trays rush in and out during the long day, and three times I leave to stretch my legs in the grass. Mr. Biden joins me once while talking rapidly into his phone. The roses are in glorious bloom and I spend hours wandering around them, nuzzling, admiring and dozing off in the freshly cut grass.
It’s nearly 4:00 when I wander to the kitchen for water. The girls should have come home slinging their jackets and laughing, but they’re nowhere to be found. I’m rankled by all of it. Our routine is missing. When I trot back to his office, he’s halfway down the hall, heading to another room. He turns on his heels and calls me to follow with his eyes and hands.
The Situation Room is packed, but silent. “I need to watch this,” he says, and I spin under his chair and press my chin onto his shoe. Again, the scent of leather and coffee beans makes me heavy-eyed. People murmur and drone for a while. I hear the snap of a camera; raise my head quickly at their sharp claps and solemn hand raps on the tabletop.
“He’s dead,” someone says. The room slowly empties.
Now, it’s very late and I’m curled up against Sasha on her bed. He watches her chest rise and fall in restful beats. He kisses her, pulls her covers up and tight, and turns his hands to me.
He’s different now. Lines from this morning have softened; the dim light of the room imbues his face. A corner smile rises as he gently runs his hands along my back.
“After today, I hope to sleep as well as you do, Bo…Amigo’s New Hope, indeed” he whispers.
I can’t comprehend, but I understand. I doze away dreaming of Roses and Ghost Flowers; worn leather soles and Arabica beans.
