Aaron M. Fortkamp

He’s ready for bed but the fingers are itchy, wanting to speak their piece. Of what they feel the urge to expel, he knows not, but he’s learned not to ignore their beckon.

Thirty days left until his wife returns for a brief sojourn in Pittsburgh before venturing on to new Virginian climes. It’s a month, a short month. He feels outside himself. This is happening to someone else, he’s watching, analyzing, diagnosing, empathizing but not really present inside his own experience. As with most things, he will reckon at a later date, unexpectedly aware. For now the lights are on, the dishes are done, the laundry folded, the music upbeat and dissonant and encouraging thought.

He wishes to understand the instant gratification he sees in others. Not, like, in general, instant gratification is a principle in which he is well-versed, but the ability to delight in and celebrate subjective truth over objective fact. It is a matter of pride, he suspects, a hallmark of youth now recently extended into adulthood, the coming of age of the philosophy of the self. Wherein instant gratification does not subside over time. The sensation of choosing correctly lasts long after being proved incorrect. The lack of the humility required to admit defeat.

How can it persist? After all this time, all this accumulated evidence? The man steals from his charities to pay off his personal debts, he can’t be given–

I am suddenly very tired. I think we all are. I just want to have hope, some hope. I know there’s a lot of people out there with conservative leanings who also possess the capacity for rational thought, and I want to be able to put my hope in them, hope for their humility, the ability to look at their own team’s horse and say to themselves, okay. Okay. This one time. I can be big enough to admit that in this case, this very important but singular case, we got it wrong. We can do better next time, but for now: no. Enough is enough. We cannot permit this disturbed, dishonest, despicable individual to succeed to the highest office, no matter which jersey he wears.

Thirty more days. Count em down with me. Then my wife is an official uniformed representative of these United States, out in the world. My hope is that the world’s reaction to her–throughout her four-year contract, mind you, if not beyond–will not be based on the maniacal whims and insecurity-fueled edicts of a petulant, corrupt, deceitful, power-hungry commander in chief. Do not put that target on my wife’s back.