The Last Supper
She: (shouting across the hallway) It’s ready!
He: (faint from a distance) OK! But he remains on the phone, listening, looking bored.
She: Come and get it!
Hearing no response, she heads to his office. Her very long legs get her across the thirty yards of the hallway in less than twenty seconds. Through the half open door she sees him behind his huge desk, holding the phone to his right ear, with a pen in his left hand. He looks distressed, lips tightly pursed.
He: OK, OK, Senator. I hear you. Personally, I wouldn’t do it that way, but you’re the chairman of the committee. It’s your call. He replaces the phone on his desk and looks up at her.
He: Am I ever glad I won’t have anything to do with him!
She: Come and eat while it’s hot.
She leaves for their dining area.
He lifts his tall figure, sighs and follows her. In the dining room, the table is set for soup and a light snack.
She: I take it that was your favourite senator?
He: Yeah! The one I thrashed eight years ago, and thought I’d never see again. Alas! He’s everywhere.
She: Not for long now, my dear. Wine?
He: Yes, I’d love to whine. But white will do.
She: I have some orange juice too, if you like?
He: I’ve gone off orange juice lately. It reminds me of someone’s hair!
She: (smiling sympathetically) Yeah, I can believe that, dear. Maybe he too, has … has gone off blackberries?
He: Too bad! That’s his problem. I got there first.
She: Of course you did, dear. You made history. What you need just now is some hot soup.
He: I think I’m in enough hot soup as it is. What kind of soup, darling?
She: Duck! You know, quack, quack! Think of Donald Duck.
He: For God’s sake darling! Do you have to bring him into everything?
She: Sorry, sorry dear! I forgot that it’s his first name.
He: OK, I guess I’ll have some. And the main course?
She: This, for me, is a new dish. Just learnt how to make it, and it’s incredibly simple. Very popular in Quebec, in Canada.
He: What’s that, some fancy stuff from France?
She: No dear, it’s made from potatoes and cheese. It’s called poutine!
He: What? I don’t believe it. Just as I am about to leave this place, I get those two idiots literally rammed down my throat. Especially that quiet, secretive, pompous dictator over there. Imagine! I threw out his diplomats within 72 hours, and what does he do? He invites ours to a party. How mean is that? You tell me!
She: Well … well … yes, that wasn’t fair at all. He had no right to do that. I mean, it’s like … like turning the other cheek.
He: Exactly! That was cowardly, if you ask me. That’s not the American way. Ours is to stand and fight. That’s how this country became great.
She: Don’t worry dear! Anyway, Donald has promised to make it great again. You’ve done your bit.
He: Bit? What do you mean “bit”? I’ve spent eight years of my life droning all those bad people, making this country what it is.
She: Absolutely, dear. You will always be remembered for that.
He: And spent eight years trying to close that prison.
She: Yes dear. If only the constitution allowed a third term, you would’ve done it, I’m sure.
He: Absolutely. People don’t realise that these things take time.
She: Anyway, you got your Nobel Peace Prize. And you got it within weeks of being elected. I mean, how many people do you know who can get it, even before they do the work? That says something; doesn’t it, dear?
He: I … I … I suppose so. And yet there is this insolent Canadian, an immigrant from some third world Arab country, who tweeted that I should return my medal. What does he know? Why did they let him into Canada?
She: Yeah. I saw that tweet. His name is Hussein, isn’t it? Don’t pay any attention to him. When we invade Canada, we can deport him back to his village.
He: Yeah. That’s what we should do. Anyway, thanks for your support, darling. It’s not easy being number one in the world. We go back to Chicago tomorrow. All I can say today is TGIF!
She: Shush! Don’t let anyone hear you say the word “Friday” again! They might say you were going to the mosque!