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The Colorado air is crisp and cold, a clean, dry chill that nips at the exposed skin on Bill Clinton’s hands. He stands on the sidewalk outside a hotel, the bright flash of a camera briefly blinding him before a reporter, David Plouffe from the New Yorker, steps in front of him, microphone in hand. The city hums around them, a distant rush of traffic and the clanging of a light rail. Plouffe’s questions are calm, methodical.
"Although the economy isn’t roaring back," Plouffe says, "neither the European banking crisis nor the unrest in the Mideast has caused it to nosedive. What do you think about the chances for the 2012 contestants?"
Bill smiles, a familiar, practiced gesture that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, the field is, shall we say, a little thin." He runs a hand through his famously silver hair. “Romney’s ineptness staggers me. While Mitt is a decent man, he's in the wrong line of work. He really shouldn’t be speaking to people in public.” He pauses for dramatic effect, leaning in slightly to the microphone. “As for Obama? He’s luckier than a dog with two dicks.”
Plouffe nods, a small, knowing smirk on his face, before thanking him. The interview ends, and Bill turns away from the cold, the waiting limousine door already open. The air inside the car is a sudden, welcome warmth, a cocoon of leather and soft light. He slides onto the plush rear seat, a sigh escaping his lips. As the door clicks shut, the hum of the city fades into a soft, insulated murmur.
Across from him, in the opposite seat, Barack Obama is hunched over a smartphone. He’s dressed in a dark suit, his tie loosened, and he's biting his bottom lip, his shoulders shaking with silent, contained laughter. He looks up at Bill, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, an expression of pure, unadulterated mirth on his face.
"Don't tell me you're getting your kicks from the livestream," Bill says, a smile spreading across his own face despite himself.
Barack grins with a flash of white teeth and holds up a small, crystal glass of champagne. "Romney's campaign is stinking like a skunk." Then, in a low, rumbling baritone, he adds, "I brought you a gift."
He doesn’t offer a verbal explanation, just a gesture, a simple invitation to join him in this shared moment. He sets the glass down in the center console's cupholder. Barack’s thumb flicks a button, and the screen of his phone, now facing Bill, fills with the image of Plouffe's face. The audio is still muted, but the motion is there, a silent, surreal replay of the moment Bill just lived. The car pulls away from the curb, gliding smoothly down the street, and Bill’s eyes are drawn from the screen to Barack’s face, which is now still.
The amusement has been replaced by something softer, a quiet warmth that feels more intimate than the closed doors and tinted windows of the car. Bill takes the glass of champagne and holds it up, the liquid a pale gold against the city lights flashing past. He knows he should be asking about the economy, about the polls, about the next rally, but the words feel trite in this moment.
Instead, Barack’s voice, a little raspy from holding back his laughter, breaks the silence. "A dog with two dicks, huh?" he says, and this time, he lets the laughter out, a rich, full sound that fills the small space and echoes in Bill’s chest. The car floats on, carrying them into the Denver night.