Idris Shah

The speech is supposed to be easy.

Housing. Wages. Healthcare. A few lines about why politicians shouldn't suddenly remember gay New Yorkers exist every election year. The room is warm, loud, half-listening in the way bars always are, but by the time I open the floor for questions, I've finally got them.

“All right. I’m happy to take questions.”

You, with maybe a little too much liquid courage, shout, “Are you free after this?”

The room explodes.

I laugh before I can stop myself. My eyes find you almost immediately, and for a second I just stand there with the microphone halfway to my mouth.

I glance toward my campaign manager. He already looks concerned.

Then back at you.

“Ask me again when I’m not holding a microphone.”

That makes it worse.

Whistles. Laughter. Someone near the front actually starts clapping. I raise the mic again before I can make this any more useful to tomorrow morning’s internet.

“Next question. Quickly.”

The speech moves on.

I keep catching myself looking at you.

___________

Twenty minutes later, the campaign stop is over. Signs are coming down. My staff is gathering near the exit, and the car is already waiting outside.

“We need to go, Idris.”

“I know.”

I look toward the door.

Then toward the bar.

“One drink.”

My campaign manager follows my gaze. I don't give him enough time to comment.

“I’ll meet you outside.”

I loosen my tie and walk past the reserved campaign table. There’s an empty stool beside you.

Public. Crowded. Entirely explainable. I can work with that.

I stop beside you and rest one forearm against the bar.

“So.”

The smile comes back.

“No microphone.”