First genderfluid president
On his first day, he arranges for a writing contest of apologies.
There is one for the trans community (although he might make the ‘executive decision’ to write that one himself), one for immigrants, one for those who wished to immigrate, and one for former government employees, to name a few. He apologizes to his community with his whole heart, and likewise the winners (or designated readers of their apologies) read theirs on live television. The crowds are more massive than any inauguration has ever seen.
He is nothing more or less than who you need him to be.
In the South, she’s a southern belle. And she’s a sharp little lady for those particular world leaders who need special, delicate care to feel in charge and masculine, of which there are hilariously many. In her drawl, she says, “whatever makes you comfy, sweetheart,” to the chromosome whiners and those particular kinds of Christians. But at the U.N., he’s usually his boring self. A few friends from the E.U. raise their eyebrows and chuckle condescendingly at the ones who must call him ‘she’ and look stupid doing so, when he’s not phenotyping particularly ‘her’ today and especially isn’t to strangers.
Back home, she has an in with the devout Catholics — her heritage.
She can say the right Rosary for the day of the week and might even crash a rural Mass or church picnic, where she’s welcomed like a friend and laughed with, because these mental gymnastics — the ones they were doing with a felon before —are a bit easier, it turns out. After all, her only sin is being him — not lying or cheating or defrauding or slandering. She still feels like he’s doing approximately two of those things, and it leaves an impishly bad taste in his mouth for the rest of his life. It is the only way, his staffers remind him, with how our phones and minds have worked since 2016. Goddamn neurotypicals.
She doesn’t own any pants suits.
It’s nothing personal; it’s just how he operates — in extremes — but the personal kind that don’t explode in others’ faces, unless they’re isolated and bored and looking for trouble. It’s his nerdy little sweater vest or her pencil skirts. Nothing in between.
He’s brash and colorful and weird and unnaturally loud when he needs to be, but it doesn’t hurt anyone. Never with intent.
