The Next Mrs Russo

“He needs to start thinking about the next Mrs Russo.” Mrs Bianchi is doing her best to sell this to the new guy, clearly having given up on dealing with Warren directly about his own life. “This bachelor nonsense cannot continue on indefinitely. It’s bad for polling and it’s bad for my angina.”

Yes, she clutches her chest dramatically with that claim.

“You don’t have angina,” Warren says drily.

“Well, I could.” She levels Warren with a glare, be it for interrupting or questioning her non-existent medical condition, I’m not sure. “It could develop at any time. What do you know about angina? You refused to go to medical school so I could have a doctor in the family.”

“Artie, did you know about this?” Warren ignores his mother’s diatribe about his lack of a medical degree, his attention now on Artie, as if he’ll be able to drag the truth out of him simply by glaring at him.

“Of course not. Though it’s not a terrible idea, at face value. Your image could use some”—Artie pauses—“softening.”

“What’s wrong with my image?”

“Oh, I know!” I interject. I don’t know why I’m so excited to have this answer but, to be honest, it feels good to finally have something to contribute to this conversation. I even wave my hand a little, like someone might call on me for the right answer.

Three heads swivel in my direction. Four if you count Duke’s, but I already had his attention so I’m not sure he counts.

“They say you’re demanding,” I launch right in, lowering my hand to count on my fingers as I rattle off what I recall from reading random headlines about him on the internet. “Tough to work with.” Finally some of my internet research is paying off. “Aloof,” I add, but those people are insane. I mean, yeah, he did just shake my hand like he wanted me to use it to vote for him in the next election instead of using it to unzip his pants but to be fair, it’s not like he’s a mind reader. “Arrogant.” Except arrogant done well is crazy hot so I don’t see the issue. But I guess it’s all in the eye of the beholder. “You’re too progressive for some people but not progressive enough for some other people.”

I pause. That was kinda vague. I think I read that in a really dull article about tax reform. I only clicked on it because the article was accompanied by a picture of Warren wearing a tie that made me feel things, but then I got bored with the tax stuff and then distracted by a new listing on Poshmark and I never finished reading it.

I brush it off and continue. “You tend to look surly all of the time, even when you’re delivering good news, and voters lack enthusiasm for you even though they voted for you.” I tap my chin with my counting finger while I try to think if I’m missing anything. “Oh! And everyone knows when you ad-lib during a press conference because you start using sports metaphors that a solid twenty percent of voters don’t understand.”

Okay, fine, that last one was a stretch and I totally made up the twenty percent thing. It’s me. I’m the one who doesn’t understand the sports metaphors. Batter up, bases loaded, three-point shot. I don’t have a clue—it all sounds the same as tax reform to me.

Also, it’s not even a valid criticism because I really enjoy listening to him talk and the sports metaphors seem to make him happy, which is a huge turn-on, but now is really not the time or place to mention that.

The room is silent when I finish. I’m not sure if they want me to continue but really, that’s all I’ve got. It’s not like I’m a political analyst or something.

I risk flicking a glance in Warren’s direction. Aloof stare, the only movement the tapping of a finger against his bottom lip while he observes.

Mrs Bianchi looks… delighted. I don’t really understand her. Artie is glancing at his watch. Duke steps on my foot again.

I need to add something, clearly. I point my counting finger in the air because I’ve run out of fingers to count off on my other hand. “The helicopter! People think you use the state helicopter too much.”

There. Done.

That last one even earned me an eye roll from Warren. Actually it was closer to a raised eyebrow and possibly a slight flicker of his eyes to the heavens, but in the limited time I’ve known him I’m guessing that’s the Warren equivalent to an eye roll.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Mrs Bianchi is positively beaming. “Artie, isn’t she lovely?” She turns to clasp Artie’s hand. Yeah, those two are together. “She’s perfect. Smart, talented, shrewd. And she may very well be able to put up with you, Warren. You’re welcome.” She finishes that speech by dramatically placing the hand not joined with Artie’s on her chest, a satisfied, borderline smug, smile on her face directed at Warren.