Chapter 12

Beatrice

“Hey, Duke. Just another typical night, right?”

Duke is looking up at me the way he always does after I get back home from somewhere.

For once, it feels like I share his excitement.

“It’s a typical night for you, my friend,” I continue, and Duke seems to understand, or at least appreciate, what I’m saying to him. “But it’s not typical for me, not in the goddamn least.”

I’m in a state that I’m used to being these days: exhausted, confused, excited, and elated.

“One of these things is not like the other,” I say to Duke, thinking about that array of emotions.

When boredom starts to set in around my dog’s eyes, I know that I need to focus on something other than blabbing to him and get my thoughts in order.

Sometimes I have trouble starting projects; sometimes I don’t. But once something is started, I’ve never had trouble continuing—never.

Until…

“What is with me, Duke? And why are you wandering into the kitchen and putting your head down?”

I wish I could do that whenever I got tired of something. But I’m not tired of this, not at all.

In fact, this feels so little like work that it’s almost suspicious. On top of that, it’s making my resistance to actual work even stronger.

My feet fall heavily on the floor on the way to the kitchen, following the path that Duke blazed.

The evidence of my energy being off is piling up. First, Duke walks away from me not two minutes after I walk inside. And now the moment I step into the kitchen, he’s looking up at me with confusion.

Those eyes are always expressive, but I don’t think they’ve ever been more expressive than they are right now.

Usually, Duke’s eyes don’t say much more than I’m so happy you’re home, or I’m so happy you’re awake, or I’m so happy you’re about to feed me, or When the hell are you going to feed me again?

This time, all his look seems to say: What’s going on with you, lady? You going nuts or something?

The thing is, I’m standing in my kitchen right now, with the lights off, and I’m staring at my dog—who’s only illuminated by the dim light coming from my living room—and I’m feeling confused and oddly tipsy, and…

Holy fuck, do I feel fantastic!

Still confused, still suddenly and weirdly tired, still feeling lingering sugar rush from that excellent dessert, still bowed over from the surreality of discussing Queen with the president of the United States…

And still feeling utterly, hopelessly, fucking fantastic.

Like the way Duke must feel when I finally return home from work each evening—with the vague sense of confusion and everything.

Duke, though, is still looking at me like I’m fucking nuts, and I’m still standing in the middle of my kitchen with the lights off.

“You can see in the dark, can’t you, my friend?”

Although I can glean a little more than the faint light reflected from Duke’s eyes, I swear I can also make out my dog shrugging at me in the dark before putting his head back down to sleep at last.

“Right. Time to sleep for you, time to work for me.”

Swiveling around back towards the relative light of the rest of my home, I find it odd that I’m still feeling that crumble-borne sugar rush.

Like I said, just utterly fantastic.

Maybe that’s the residual glow from spending time with such a charismatic public figure. After all, there’s no way somebody could climb that far in politics without having some serious charm.

It’s different from the type of charisma that comes across on TV or even on some shitty YouTube video, because you can really feel it in person.

Nearly tripping over my own feet on my way to the bedroom, I find just enough focus and coordination within myself to turn off the damn overhead light above the living room. That nice sugar rush sensation lingers, but seeing a big chunk of my apartment go dark adds a strange ominousness to the feeling.

I can’t help but feel euphoric as I recall having dinner with the president. He was so charismatic, and he made me feel so good.

But is it all just politics?

Why does it still feel so formal, with no sense of history—our history?

I mean, it’s not like I really broached the subject, either.

I come even closer to falling on my face as I walk to my bedroom door. I burst into laughter before I even realize what’s happening, catching myself on the doorknob and lifting myself back up to my feet.

Fuck, it’s almost like I’m drunk. It’s understandable. It’s not every night that I get to have dinner with heads of state, though I’ve had many meals with this head of state before he was elected to any office.

He’s president now, and it’s a whole new ball game. Spending time with him is as easy, as exciting, and as invigorating as it ever was in the past.

I swallow audibly while pulling down the chain to switch on my traditional banker’s style desk lamp.

My laptop is sitting closed and unloved under the illumination of the naked LED bulb.

This is my biggest project so far, and there’s a very good chance this may be the peak of my career in many ways. Yet running my fingers around the rim of my computer, it feels like it would take a serious force of will to simply open the machine and turn it on.

The idea of sitting, hunched over a laptop at my desk here or anywhere, feels like an absurdity right now.

In my head, I’m still at dinner with the president, with all the excitement and bewilderment that comes with it.

Before I realize what’s happening, I switch off my desk lamp. As a dreamy fatigue washes over me, I realize that tomorrow morning will be the time for work.

My head is way up in the clouds right now, but hopefully, a good night’s sleep will cure me of that affliction.

And then I can get started on the most important work of my life.