That Old-Time Magic, Revisited
President Obama stared across his desk. The oval office, now empty, was starting to get stale with cigarette smoke, sour sweat, and bad news. Christ, what a year. He looked at the framed photograph of Michelle.
He had made a promise. But here he was.
“Fuck it,” he said, and unlocked the lower left hand drawer, the forbidden drawer, the drawer that he hadn’t opened for twelve grueling months. He pulled out the olive-drab metal box with stenciled lettering — such paltry camouflage — and set it on the desk. Did it sag just a little, the wood protesting at its strange burden?
He popped open the latches and lifted the hinged lid. He pulled out the lamp, already smelling cinnamon and apricots. “Sorry, baby,” he said.
And started, for the third time, to rub.