The president moved gracefully around the room, experiencing each piece of furniture as if it were new. She watched him from her position in his plush slipper chair, where she’d been reviewing Union expense reports. This was far from her job description, but he knew better than to articulate that thought.
“Am I dreaming?” He paused at the window, looking out onto the snowy lawn.
“This is real,” she assured him. “It’s worrisome you can’t tell the difference, sir.”
“I have such vivid dreams.”
She set the reports aside, her attention refocused on him. “I know you do; I’ve heard every detail.”
A thin, tired smile crossed his face. “You’re weary of me.”
“I’m not. I couldn’t be,” she paused. “I just worry about this sadness.”
“There’s no curing it,” he informed her. “I’m melancholy by design.”
She knew that. She was drawn to it, really; most of her attraction to this man was rooted in desire to cheer his sadness, to feel needed and useful, to focus on him rather than turn that gaze inward. Neither of them had much use for well-adjusted.