The two things I think about every day of my life are ham sandwiches and Barack Obama. So I wasn’t surprised to find myself pedaling at an easy clip across the Riverview Bridge and dreaming of Barry. My eyes follow the curve under the viaduct while I imagine him staring into my eyes and leaning in, my stomach fluttering — and then our kiss is interrupted by a woman in a Cubs hat screaming at her toddler, “Utah! Come here!”
I’m not looking to fistfight Michelle over B. I’ve seen her arms, and I like my face where it is. But if you have a hot celeb hub whose laugh has reached into every home in America, you’re gonna have to deal with a stranger’s little smoochy-smooch fantasy about your husband. Sorry, not sorry.
As I continue to bike around the Clark Park boathouse, I see teenage girls unloading their kayaks, and suddenly I’m in a canoe with Barack. He’s rowing, and I’m under a parasol, twirling my hair. He explains that if I don’t start helping, the canoe will go in the wrong direction, and I laugh at his joke. He says he’s serious.
I say he’s charming.
After someone rescues us off the river at Horner Park, Barack suggests we grab a box of dumplings at Qing Xiang Yuan in Chinatown. We eat them at Ping Tom Park and wave at the water taxis going by. He says I shouldn’t eat two dumplings at a time and worries about my health. I say, “OK, Michelle. I didn’t know I was dating both of you. … Do you think she’d be into it?”
The night settles at the council rings at Promontory Point. We sip on Koval gin with lemon and ice and discuss why we hated The Trial of the Chicago 7 despite Sacha Baron Cohen playing Abbie Hoffman. The moon reflects on Lake Michigan, the fire crackles, and Barry hands me a warm smashed ham sandwich he’s been carrying in his pocket all day. I’m disgusted and madly in love at the same time and take a delicious bite.