The media have been intrusive, honestly, but his entire life has prepared him for a public identity. It's too early to say, but his career might not peak at Congress. He's had no shortage of support and he lauds the dedication of the people around him. Cindy knew he could achieve these things, and he will. He can't achieve them with her, but he can achieve them for her.
He steps out of the florist's and starts walking, only for a woman to turn ahead of him. They collide, and he reaches out a steadying hand just as she tries to stabilize him. He's careful not to crush the flowers, but keeping both of them on their feet is the priority.
He manages, "Are you all right?" before he recognizes her face. When he does, his expression cycles quickly through confusion and anger and settles on a sort of mild frustration. He remembers a heavily edited version of events: waking up with her in that hotel room, and the scent of her perfume on his shirt.
Unflattering as the comparison is, she reminds him of a small scar on the back of his neck. He can't recall where it came from and similarly, he can't place her. He doesn't understand her, but she's very real for him. There's no other word for it.
sorry, couldn't resist.
The media have been intrusive, honestly, but his entire life has prepared him for a public identity. It's too early to say, but his career might not peak at Congress. He's had no shortage of support and he lauds the dedication of the people around him. Cindy knew he could achieve these things, and he will. He can't achieve them with her, but he can achieve them for her.
He could delegate the responsibility of buying flowers for the grave, but he's not that impersonal. He's the only one who knows what his wife would've liked. And it's not an excuse to be alone, by any means, but it's a rare opportunity. His attaché is willing to give him a few hours uninterrupted where family matters are concerned.
He steps out of the florist's and starts walking, only for a woman to turn ahead of him. They collide, and he reaches out a steadying hand just as she tries to stabilize him. He's careful not to crush the flowers, but keeping both of them on their feet is the priority.
He manages, "Are you all right?" before he recognizes her face. When he does, his expression cycles quickly through confusion and anger and settles on a sort of mild frustration. He remembers a heavily edited version of events: waking up with her in that hotel room, and the scent of her perfume on his shirt.
Unflattering as the comparison is, she reminds him of a small scar on the back of his neck. He can't recall where it came from and similarly, he can't place her. He doesn't understand her, but she's very real for him. There's no other word for it.
"Bree?"