There was no secret service.
No pretty gingerbread rooms.
No white house staff at all.
Only one "friend",
an assistant of sort,
a personal body guard, maybe.
No sharp suits nor stiff wingtip shoes.
No sleek gels shinning through his hair.
No practiced smiles of a politician.
They met like old friends, T-shirts, jeans, real life hair and blemishes showing through the surface of his skin. Aged a few years, more than a few. Still a charming boy, still made love like no one else.
Something else reeked of strangeness: no covers nor sheets on the bed, just a flat cotton mattress. no stray clothes tossed to the floor. Their cottage windows opened out to nothing, or perhaps they were closed. Silence surrounded them, and a pale white light shrouding their embrace and warming them like covers.
He spoke in hush tones, and she laughed. Not sure why, not sure it mattered. They sipped tea and strolled by the garden under their window. So perhaps that accounted for the silence.
No birds, only greens, grass and a few short bushes.
All quiet and peace.
Then he left, after bending over to kiss her goodbye he strode out with a long legged swagger that rang true to his signature style. The shock of recognition came over her then, like a sudden wave that swelled up from behind her, growing over and wrapping her inside its chamber of green darkness and silence, filled with churning water and sand. She got up to get dressed and to walk out of there herself.
The garden had disappeared. So had the white cottage. She woke to find herself asleep and alone in her bed, covered with soft green sheets. She smiled at that secret yearning to return, and at this happiness to stay.