He has a gawky charm, she supposes, what with his glasses and the ink smeared on his fingertips when he grabs the draft from the printer too quickly, which he always does and you'd think he'd learn.
He's handsome, yes. But there have been other handsome men. He is nothing she doesn't already know.
She's never been good at making first impressions, not unless there's a camera pointed at her face and she's got someone to beat. She trips over her words, stumbling in rhythm, cadences that pile up at the back of her throat.
He smiles and says, Well, the President won't forget you now.
You're a bleeding-heart, idealistic, lily-livered idiot who's completely out of step with modern-day America, she spits.
At least I'm not a Republican, he returns evenly in that infuriating way he has.
She snorts; it's a habit she tries to suppress but she can't get the words out which is ridiculous, since he only said six words and she's inclined to take them as a compliment. She tells him that.
I took yours as a compliment too, he says.
When she stalks away she makes sure that her hair fans out behind her. There's a power in it, she knows.
They're walking down one of the thousand hallways and she's already been lost twice today and it's her third week so she should really know her way around, but she's just glad she found her office this morning.
Hey, remember that time you thought Leo's closet was a bathroom?
Remember that time I made a fool out of you on national television?
They smile at each other before turning down their separate corridors. I love it when you drawl at me, he throws over his shoulder.
You're leaving? he asks, having swung the door of her boiler room office shut. It's louder than she remembers it being.
Yes.
Why?
She presses her palms to her desk. There's nothing for me here, she tells him.
When he kisses her, it's hardly a surprise; she has only kissed five men in her lifetime but all of them have been like him, anguished and eager and sloppy, so confident as to seem invincible.
He is not invincible.
Neither is she.
She sees him, once, a few years later. She's sitting in the airport, waiting for a connecting flight, and he rushes past, dictating into a cell phone and dragging an expensive carry-on bag behind him. When he sees her – I'll call you back, all right?
Hello, she says, one leg crossed over the other, the New York Times open on her lap.
Hi. As if he can't believe she's here.
I'm on my way to Houston, she tells him.
Lots of Republicans there, he tells her; when she laughs it's laced with pity. I just got in – I've got a meeting, actually –
You wouldn't want to miss it. She returns her gaze to the editorials.
Well, he says, a little uncertainly, it was nice seeing you.
You too, she says, smiling up at him in that way she knows she has.
He walks away. She doesn't watch him go.