The first thing Jen sees when she opens her eyes is Finnegan, the President’s aide and granddaughter.

“What is it?” she mumbles to the earnest young woman. She realizes she slept at work again. She shifts and farts and it briefly inflates her tactical pantyhose.

“It’s Grandpa,” Finnegan says. “He’s been reading the Twitter again.”

“How does he keep getting a phone?” Jen asks, knowing Finnegan will not have an answer. She sits up and rubs her eyes.

“You’re the slay queen,” Finnegan says. “Have your simp army on Twitter figure it out.”

“Coffee,” Jen croaks.

“I don’t think any of your press interns are here yet,” Finnegan says as she leaves.

“I should chain them to their fucking desks.”

—

Jen strips down in her private bathroom and has a whore’s bath in the sink, washing armpits and neck and crotch and dabbing Joe’s favorite perfume on her pulse points. She scrubs her face until her freckles come through and moisturizes the aging skin on her neck. Frowning at the dark roots showing in her part, she brushes her hair roughly. Jen brushes her teeth until she spits blood into the sink and then puts on a fresh set of clothes.

“Goddammit,” she says to the Jen in the mirror.

There is a timid knock on her door.

“What?”

“Your coffee, ma’am.”

The Korean press intern takes a step back when Jen opens the door.

“You’re the only one I like,” Jens mumbles as she takes the giant tumbler of coffee from her.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Jen drinks off half the coffee and grumbles, begins to leave the bathroom.

“Eyeliner, ma’am,” the intern says.

“What?”

“Eyeliner, ma’am. You said for us to remind you when you are going to talk to the President.”

Jen backs into the bathroom and sits down heavily on her toilet lid.

“Can you just do it for me?” she asks around sips of coffee.

“Yes, ma’am,” the intern says and begins to look over Jen’s makeup selection.

“Sorry about my coffee breath,” Jen murmurs as the intern comes at her with the eyeliner pencil.

“It’s OK, ma’am.”

“Please just call me Jen.” She glances down to read her security pass, blanking completely on her name. Instead, she sees down her shirt as she leans in, taking in a horribly white and utilitarian bra covering small breasts.

“That contradicts the memo from 2/23, ma’am,” the intern said, moving onto the left eye.

“My first boyfriend was about your size,” Jen whispers. “I liked that he was small enough to throw around.”

“All done,” the intern says backing away.

“I have prepared my face to meet the faces I meet,” Jen says into the mirror.

“There will be time to murder and create,” the intern replies.

“What?”

“That’s the next line. You were quoting ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,’ ma’am.”

“Oh, was I?” Jen asks, turning, her breasts brushing against the intern in the close confines of the bathroom.

—

“Strawberry!” Joe says excitedly.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Jen replies, the poem now sour in her mouth.