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"Jacqueline." He looked serious. "We can't go out to lunch."
I waited for further explanation.
"We have to be very discreet. I can't risk being seen with somebody like you."
I could not believe this shit: What is he afraid of? Doesn't every respectable married man keep a mistress?
"Since I can't take you out anywhere or offer you any kind of future, I would feel guilty if I didn't compensate you in some way."
Compensate? "You mean, like, money?" I asked.
"I'll give you financial assistance. I know you're an intern and you could use the money. It's only fair."
I wanted to know how much, but felt it would be tacky to ask. "That makes sense," I said instead.
He put his arms around me, but his affections felt false. He finished quickly the second time. I wondered how much five minutes of missionary was worth.
He started talking, complaining mostly. I really wanted to take a nap, but I stayed awake and feigned interest for his benefit. He went on and on about his job, his marriage, how he loathed Washington. (He's from Boston.)
"So why did you come to D.C. if you hate it so much here?" I asked him in an effort to participate in the "conversation," which was more like an hour-long monologue.
"When the president offers you a job, you don't say no," he said.
Well.
"You know the president?" I didn't know if I was more impressed with him or with myself: I'm one degree away from POTUS!
"That's how I got such a cushy job," he explained. "Not everybody gets to take these long lunches whenever they want." Fred put his suit back on, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a sealed envelope. "This is for you."
The money.
I thanked him as I tucked the envelope away in my handbag. The sight of it made me very uncomfortable. But as soon as he left, I tore it open and counted the cash. Four hundred dollars. For an hour of my time. What a country.
