The face of the President was burned in her mind, the victory of their stolen hours together made her blush. He once gave her a snapshot of himself as a child posing with his youthful grandfather. They were standing by a lake, holding up fish they had caught; how utterly dull. She still had the picture (the lawyers didn’t know she had it so they’d never asked for it); she held it close to her face and studied it. He is the image of his grandfather, if we get married and have a son, our son will look like this, too.
She flipped over the photo and read the inscription in his messy scrawl: For My Dearest Monica, You mean the world to me! It was such a trite expression, but she knew he was sincere. And he’d drawn a heart around her name, a small gesture that meant a lot. I will reel him in, she thought, just like he reeled in that fish.
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(*yet another entry for the trifecta contest. required word: image)
