Ivanka takes midmorning jogs. Go on your runs before ten.
Ivanka tries to strike up conversation in the farmers’-market line. Bring a book.
Ivanka shows up at art galleries overdressed in her “#WomenWhoWork” blouse with the pink frilly bows. Wear your largest mask—maybe she won’t recognize you.
Ivanka is going to send you a bunch of passive-aggressive texts, such as “how are you?,” “just making sure you’re doing all right,” and “been so long, checking in.” She wants to know if you are free to “grab coffee.” You wonder who has time to grab coffee, as you stand in line for your apple-pie latte. (It’s free with your redeemed points.)
Your mom will call.
“I saw Ivanka’s mom at the doctor’s office,” she says.
“Ivana?” you say.
“Ivanka’s mom,” she repeats a few more times. “Do you know Ivanka’s moving back to New York?”
You say nothing.
“Do you know she has two kids?”
You don’t have kids.
“Where are your kids?” she says, as if you left the kids you don’t have in a hot car.
“How are you, Mom?” you ask, trying to change the subject.
“Sometimes I forget to wash my hands,” she says, ruefully.
“Mom, you have to wash your hands! Sing ‘Happy Birthday’ twice.”
“You are so smart,” your mom says.
You catch yourself smiling.
“You should call Ivanka,” she adds, before hanging up.
Ivanka will say that you and she have the same hair. Your hair isn’t straight or blond.
Ivanka will say that you and she have the same sense of humor. You haven’t made a joke.
Ivanka will say, “Socrates once said, ‘Change comes from within.’ ” He didn’t. He literally never said that.
One day, you will open an Amazon package and find a small Rifle Paper Co. desk calendar inside featuring lovely hand-painted flowers—a different arrangement every month. Did you forget that you ordered this? “I just thought of you,” Ivanka will say. You have been using it for nearly two months before she mentions this.
Ivanka will like and repost something that you wrote. She will comment, “That’s MY friend!” Her friends will like it. Her friends will friend you, will follow you, will message you. You will be asked to explain racism for her friend’s child’s book report. “Leave out the bad parts,” Ivanka requests.
You run into each other on a morning jog. Even sweaty, she looks impeccable—the human embodiment of “shop the look.”
“So, coffee?” she asks.
You say, “No, Ivanka.” And you walk away.
But then you look back and you see it. She is dabbing at her face—a single tear.
You walk faster, turn the corner, and, safely out of sight, you pump your fist, because you did it! You made Ivanka cry.
Then you realize that your North Face is also wet and it probably wasn’t a human tear. It’s just raining.
