He was my stage partner for our high school musical, freshman year. He fell for me immediately. I wanted to like him back – he was the smartest guy I'd ever met, and he made me laugh so much – but I never felt physically attracted to him.
We both loved the dance numbers. He loved to slip his arms around my waist and sing into my ear. I loved to close my eyes and pretend that I could love him.
We visited D.C. for our Senior Class Trip. I remember standing with him as he looked wistfully at the White House.
“I'm going to be inside one day,” he'd said, half promise, half premonition.
After High School, he went away to college. I stayed home and married a soldier.
Eventually, he became a lawyer.
Eventually, I became a widow.
He is a Senator, now.
His letter came yesterday – fancy paper bearing a fancy seal and a phone number.
I call it.
He says he is running for President. He says he needs a First Lady.
Turns out, I am “the right type.”
“Come to D.C.,” he says, “dance with me again.”
“Okay,” I say.
Running my hand over his picture in the paper, I wonder if I will still have to close my eyes.