The iCandidate by Mikael Carlson Page B

happens if you lose?”
    “ It'll be fine, honey. Trust me.”
    “Never trust an old Army sergeant who says ‘trust me.’ You’d better hope you’re right.” It was more of a warning than a statement. “C'mon, time to go to bed.”
    “ I can't, you’re sitting on it,” I reply playfully, sensing the worst is over.
    Jessica stands up and reaches her hand out to me. “I'm not asking again. Come to bed, congressman.”
    I flash a little smile, turn off the light, and follow her down the dark hallway. She is right about one thing. I haven’t considered what would happen if I lose this bet. Maybe Chelsea is right and I possess all the principles the American public claim to want in a politician.
    Romantic as that sounds, d eep down I realize I could never win. I have nobody willing to contribute money and no connections. Even if I did, I am too direct, loathe the games politicians play, and could never subject myself to the personal scrutiny the modern public figure has to endure. I’m not sure how I could deal with the media’s voracious appetite for news and political enemies who will use any small detail to forge an advantage in the polls.
    “It won't get that far, you know,” I say, more trying to convince myself than my future wife.
    Her reply makes me believe she somehow already knows how this is going to turn out. “I'll remember you said that when it gets that far.”

.
 
-TEN-
    KYLIE
     
    She almost never comes into the Big Apple, at least not by herself. There are occasions when her boss has some manner of business here, and that is about the only time I see her. It’s a preferable arrangement for both of us, because we can’t stand each other. She has her world, I have mine, and when they collide, two 747s slamming head-on at 30,000 feet is a good metaphor to describe the result.
    S he is someone who has gotten used to the trappings of power and the D.C. after-hours political scene, so my first thought was to torture her at one of the many tourist traps the city has to offer. I was thinking maybe something around Times Square, where typical bills of fare are offered up to tourists at obscenely marked-up prices. She would consider any such place beneath her.
    I decided on a different approach. With all the Saturday matinees in the Theater District, it will be too crowded in the restaurants to initiate this confrontation, especially in early June. Plus, I want her to feel somewhat relaxed while still letting her know that she is in my city now. New York is my turf, so I settled on a nice quiet bistro in the Village where I can say my peace. It is charming enough for her to be slightly at ease, while hip and artsy enough to remind her she is swimming in my fishbowl, and not with the rest of the sharks in the Beltway aquarium.
    Now fashionably late, I watch as she saunters up and glides into the seat across from me. “Long time, no see, Kylie,” she says as she places her oversized purse on the floor next to her chair. “How’s unemployment treating you?”
    Apparently the gloves are coming off early. “Hi, Madison. It’s great, thanks for asking. How’s life working for the snake charmer?” I respond in a feint of innocence as she smiles smugly.
    “Same old, same old. Just doing the people’s work and representing the best interests of the district, like we always do.”
    The waiter comes over and asks us for our drink order . “I’ll have the Chardonnay,” I say. “And she’ll have a glass of grape Kool-Aid.” The Jonestown metaphor is lost on the waiter, but not on Madison.
    “And can you slip some hemlock into her drink since she is committing career suicide anyway?”
    The waiter stammers, stuttering something about not having Kool-Aid and asking what hemlock is. I let him off the hook just to make him go away.
    “Just bring two Chardonnays.” And with that, he bolts from our table, no doubt relieved to get away from the crazy women seated here.
    “Well, this is almost like old