Hope moved through the hallways of the White House sinuously, touching no one, letting no one touch her. Plump Midwest interns scrambled like cats on linoleum to get out of the way of her long, confident strides and smokey eyes. She growled softly at a junior speechwriter while he struggled with the Keurig in the hallway; a prey animal instinct making him shiver. She let her hand idly graze the crotch of one of the Secret Service agents in the final approach to the Oval Office, turning to smile at him with a swish of hair. He let only his eyes follow her as she breezed past the last phalanx of secretaries.

“Is he in?” she asked, not even slowing to hear an answer. She knocked on the Oval Office door as she let her musk flood the agents to either side. She never wore any perfume but herself, a quick finger in the honey pot and a line drawn down both sides of her neck, each wrist. She smiled while they fidgeted. Had they really smelled what they thought they had smelled? Faint and familiar. No, surely not.

“Come in,” Donald finally croaked. Hope flipped her hair back to give them one more dose and opened the door.

He was sitting at his desk, wearing pants for once, his toupee perched on his shoulder, and holding his Make America Great Again hat on a raised fist. Hope sighed deeply and shut the door behind her.

“Mr. President,” she said brightly.

“Hope,” he said, “Hope, Hope, Hope.” He dropped the hat on his desk and took the toupee off his shoulder. He twisted it around and around, confused, before putting it on his head. “Stop squirming,” he said.

“Mr. President?” Hope asked.

“Not you,” he said, “You squirm all you want.” His leer turned into a squint of confusion.

“Do you want anything?” he asked. He slapped a large button on his desk and a can of Diet Coke rose out of it on a little platform, condensation forming immediately in the jungle heat of the office, mold growing in the corners, a thick biofilm over the windows.

“Did Joe ever get a good sniff of you?” he asked. He opened the Diet Coke and drank deeply, the loose flesh of his neck working up down as he swallowed.

“I’ve never met the Vice President,” she replied. He finished the can of soda, threw it at a trashcan, missed and the can came to a rest on its side, leaking on the floor.

“The maid will get it,” he said. She realized he was talking to his hat again. Another one of those days we aren’t going to get much done, she thought.

“Shhhhhhh,” he whispered and patted his head, slowly and carefully. He then stood abruptly.

“Do you want a Diet Coke?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure?” He slapped the button again and another Diet Coke rose. “So cold,” he said, holding over his neck. “Cools the blood.”

Hope crossed to the settee and pulled her skirt into place before sitting down.

“Come sit beside me, sir,” she said, patting the cushion.

Donald looked around suspiciously before taking up his hat and crushing it to his chest.

“It’s OK,” she said, “No one is watching.”

“They’re always watching,” he said. He took a few shuffling steps and sat down beside her as far away as he could.

“They are also listening,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“Who?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

They!” he said insistently. “They said they were listening.” Donald pointed to his hair and then to his hat, still smushed into his chest.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“He can tell you,” he said and smoothed out the hat. It was raggedy and frayed. Someone had glued googly eyes to the front panel of the hat and there was something that looked worryingly like a semen stain on the bill.

“Take him,” he said, holding the hat out to her. “He likes to watch when you go to the bathroom.”

“That’s your hat,” she said, “Your special hat. I couldn’t possibly.”

“I don’t know how Kim Jung Un is still alive!” he screamed at the hat as she fled the room.