His shirt is off-white, as he hopes America soon won’t be. He is wearing a belt with a buckle, which isn’t like anything, but it’s a very fetching belt.
How do I put this? Like many regular people, Henrik is a LOOKER! At least an 8, a number I am told he appreciates more than some numbers but less than others! Just like people! I’m losing my mind here!
He has a girlfriend! WHAT? Can you believe this guy? I can’t believe this guy. Just like people! Is this even allowed? He’s so—what’s the word?—mundane. But also another word that I won’t remember in time for this article.
He has a computer, not, as I had kind of expected, an ENIGMA machine, and he is busily typing away on it, just posting his words and videos on the Internet with other people’s words and videos, like they are just the same. People might see them and think these were things that a person, living today, with a dog and a garage with a tennis ball, thought! He voted for the president! When he isn’t rallying or posting hate-filled screeds, he likes to go fishing, and sometimes he even catches fish!
Once someone did not serve him at a chicken restaurant, he says, and it made him very unhappy, almost as unhappy as one time when he went to a playground and saw little children judging one another by the content of their character.
We sit down. He thanks me for being here, for taking this time with him. He wishes more people would see him as a person. Just like he also sees some people, but not everyone.
Now Michelle and Ivanka Are Neighbors
Jared Kushner and Ivanka Trump moved to a house in Kalorama—less than two blocks from where the Obamas reside after vacating the White House. Here, naturally, is what ensued from such proximity.
AT THE OBAMA HOUSE in Kalorama, a Secret Service officer rings the doorbell. Another Secret Service officer answers. After a brief period of negotiation, Ivanka Trump appears on the doorstep with a casserole. She is wearing an impeccable blue sheath dress and her hair has been blown out in long, beachy waves. “Hey, neighbors!” she says, in a pleasant, low voice. “I brought a casserole. I hope that we can be friends.”
“Thanks,” Michelle says.
“Also, Chelsea and Al say hi.”
“Chelsea . . . Clinton and Al . . . Gore?” Michelle asks. She cannot help noticing Ivanka’s shoes: black kitten heels made of a shiny patent leather. They look fantastic.
When the door shuts behind her, Michelle and Barack smile at each other. “She seems nice,” Barack says.
“I loved her shoes,” Michelle says.
The casserole is delicious. Between themselves, the Secret Service, and the girls, they finish the whole thing.
The next day, Michelle takes back the pan.
Ivanka greets her cheerily at the door. “Come in,” she says. “I hope you liked the casserole.”
“We did,” Michelle says. “You know, if you need to talk about anything—climate change, maternity leave—I’m always here.”
Ivanka beams. “Do you really mean that?” she asks. “That means a lot.”
Michelle nods understandingly.
“I do have one thing I want to talk about,” Ivanka says. “I heard you go to SoulCycle. Do you like it? I’ve been meaning to try.”
“You should come,” Michelle says. “Let’s move!”
“Really? I’d love that.” Ivanka pauses and taps something on her phone. Her nails are shell pink and perfect.
“Really.”
Ivanka puts the phone away. “Sorry,” she says. “Just posting on Instagram.”
“Of course,” Michelle says. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Ivanka points.
On the way there, Michelle trips over a pair of shoes. Beige heels, suede, with a rounded toe. They have Ivanka’s name in them. Even as she trips over them Michelle cannot help remarking on their beauty.
When she gets back the TV is playing CNN and it says that Donald Trump has just tweeted something highly alarming. Ivanka smiles apologetically and shrugs. “We can’t choose our families, can we?”
That afternoon Michelle goes through her closet, on a whim. One of her favorite pairs of shoes has Ivanka’s name in them. She would never have noticed before but now she is starting to see the name everywhere. Ivanka Trump. IT.
When she checks the closet again, there is another pair. But she must have miscounted.
After they go to SoulCycle, Michelle finds a gift box on the front doorstep.
“From Ivanka,” the Secret Service agent says.
She opens it. It is a sheath dress, impeccably tailored. It is so nice. She is about to put it on but something in the mirror catches her eye. A pair of heels in the hallway. She doesn’t remember leaving them there, but she must have. They are black and strappy and made of smooth patent leather. She puts them back in the closet and shuts the door, feeling suddenly cold.
They start to see each other as a matter of course. Whenever Donald is on TV, Michelle notices, Ivanka merely watches and says nothing. Her face is perfectly calm and unreadable, like an Instagram picture of a porcelain teacup.
Barack does not think anything of it, but it lands funny in the pit of Michelle’s stomach.
The next week, Michelle goes to visit a friend.
“Is it weird living next to Ivanka?” the friend asks.
“No,” Michelle says. “She’s nice.”
“That’s good to hear,” the friend says. “I love her clothes. And you can’t choose your family, can you?”
Michelle’s foot touches something under the table and she looks down. It is an exquisite pair of beige heels (the tag says “nude,” but they are beige). For a moment it seems as though they are watching her, but that cannot be right.
Michelle dreams that when she puts on the sheath dress, it catches fire. Everything is on fire. Ivanka sits in the White House and smiles.
She wakes up, panting. The lights in the house down the block are still on. It is not that the house is watching her. There is nothing out of the ordinary about the
