Still tingling in the afterglow of her seismic response to Agent Strozk’s mystic rhythms, Lisa awoke to find the covers drawn back and an imprint in the mattress beside the wet spot where his body so recently reposed after the beast with two backs they’d been making disenfranchised some time around 2. .
Trembling with ennui that was the ballast of her admiration steadying the keel of post-coital regret, the DC suffragette reached over for the pack on her night stand, and drug out a cigarette. Breathing in the sweet smoke and the wafting remnants of her lover’s aqua velva, Lisa held it all inside for a moment, then exhaled with a sigh that, along with the smoke and chemical molecules of HIM brought her clarity and the resolve to endure.
Oh isn’t that just like my Peter, she said to herself, off before the sun to keep the World and the USA safe from the evil Drumpfler, stamping out the possibility that the blue collar trash in flyover country could ever, ever, ever elect such an ‘enormous douche’ to the White House.
Seeing drab portents in the churning smoke, the glowing memory of their timeless time together began to fade, replaced by the cold nipples sagging cold against her folded arms, sending through her a chilling premonition of the ravages of time.
Aghhh dire agony and life not to be lived as a tribulation! For His love and the center of my dwindling erogenous zones be his St. Moritz, I’d count myself the queen of infinite space … were it not that I have orange-stuffed socks for tits.
Then, prompted by her earlier allusion to female hygiene and female hygiene accessories, namely Douche, she threw off the covers and ran screaming into the bathroom, a thin trail of smoke behind her, an ephemeral string to save her from the witch’s taste for Gretel. Stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette in the sink, she traded it for a plastic bottle of Summer’s Eve. Twas sad but true, Her Strzok-a-by-Baby Peter was a married man whose husbandry was still on demand adding to the absolute necessity of keeping her motor clean. His gender fluid wife worked prosecutions for the US Security and Exchange Commission. Who knew what filthy financial instruments and foreign currencies had been all up in there?
Filled with angst from the rush of vinegar and water, Lisa rinsed off her legs and, stepping from her glassed-in shower, grabbed the towel hanging from the peg fixed to the wall and wrapped it round her inelastic body. Still quite stunning for a damsel in her late forties as long as she was dressed for success and made up well, the elder Page stood at her sink, looked in the mirror and saw the lines in her face were getting clearer. Since the deficits had begun to outnumber the surpluses in her life–the wrinkles, cruel tidal gravity and the certainty of another disappointing Walking Dead season–she was prone to sudden fits of hysteria and depression that rose within her a disharmony of screaming voices, each converging in a dissolute threnody of desolation and despair.
And now, to top them all, the idea that he, this interloper, this high society Manhattan builder (builder, oh just thinking the word left a moldy rotten taste in her mouth) with a gold-plaited toilet, this spray-tanned bigot with the temerity to tweet out HAPPY CINCO DE MAYO! whilst pictured before a jalapeno-spiced salad in an culturally-appropriated, corn-based bowl that you could eat!
That this impostor, this, this! gross dauphine and pretender to the throne could even deign believe it was possible for one as base and earthy as he to ever be allowed to think, or aspire, to such a thing…that it could be possible for him to enter the White House as anything but a tourist, was just too much for her jejune sensibilities to conceive.
Harried by her horrifying thoughts, she stumbled back from the sink and swooned through the bathroom door, brushing the jamb with one of her trembling bare shoulders and knocking herself sideways into a stumbling shuffle. Over correcting to regain forward momentum, she twirled across the floor and dove, twisting through the air, headfirst onto the bed.
Rolling over into the wet spot, she crawled out of her towel and lunged for the night stand, crushing the pack of cigarettes with her forearm as she found her cell phone with one clutching hand. Rolling back over onto her towel, shivering with anxiety as well as the cold of the drafty apartment, she thumbed the messaging icon of her daring, steadfast lover.
“He’s not ever going to become president, right?” she screamed, enunciating crisply so the talk-to-text wouldn’t get it wrong. Then, pausing to take breath she screamed up at the ceiling the exclamation point on her desperate entreaty. “Ri-eeee-ght?!”
His answer did not take long to travel through the ether, bouncing back to the green tinge of her Galaxie’s LED with comforting monosyllables of forthrightness and strength.
““No. No he won’t,” thumbed back the self righteous special agent. “We’ll stop it!”
They could take comfort in the rightness of their cause because they knew for certain their cause was righteous. The insurance policy they’d been concocting with the other like-minded intel operatives was justified by the end result. Ceding no one the moral high ground but themselves, Agent Strzok, their point man, headed directly into the maelstrom he’d so grandiosely code named, living vicariously through the rock-n-roll idylls of his youth, the intrepid agent turned up his collar and trudged headlong into the driving rain of that CROSSFIRE HURRICANE of his own making.