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I took that particular need and blended it with another one, stepping up to a group of three women who had been hovering near the table. " I asked, and one of them, the one with the smile that seemed to be about nothing in particular, dug into her purse and handed me one. It was a first date, one I wasn't sure would be followed by a second, and how was I to know that the woman on the other side of the table would set the presidency into seismic rumblings?I thanked her, introduced myself, and resumed hunting my target stripes. She struck me as cheerful, open, a bit too much a resident of Planet Hap-Hap-Happy in my acerbic view. She mentioned, more by way of observation than complaint, that her transcribing duties for the DOD were massively challenging for someone who had more skill in communication than in typing—a tidbit now used as bimbo ammo, though it seemed reasonable to me at the time.In Little Cayman, where the fun is in landing, not eating, the bad-tasting bonefish, normally the fish get thrown back. " a woman—the hostess, the birthday girl—called me Saturday night.
But I am not jumping in because one dinner with Monica enabled me to read her mind as she sits with friends and family at the Watergate, pondering her fate. The simple act of gifting me with a few quarters after knowing me but a few minutes disarmed me. Her long hours and international roadtrips while working as the personal assistant to the deputy Defense secretary precluded much of a social life, and she was anxious to move on to something less demanding.
The world was beside itself about the latest presidential scandal, this one involving an affair with a then-21-year-old intern—the juiciest story to break in my adult life, a salacious tale of alleged infidelity between the most powerful man in the Milky Way and a girl named Monica. A girl I'd gone out on a date with a few weeks before.
I hesitate here, because I have no desire to appear on Hard Copy or banter with MSNBCeebees, and, essentially, I feel bad for poor Monica and feel unclean adding my feeble barnacle to her ship of fame.
Whether we care about her or not, we've all done the math on Monica's behalf, parsing out her destiny over warming beers and neglected finger food.
No matter the permutations, there are really only three options: 1.) It happened the seamy way it looks, in which case I feel sorry for her.