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On a weekend he spent in Delaware, he told Jill he was going into his study to do some thinking. He asked her to keep him free from interruptions.
He went to his desk and sat down.
It was sunny outside. He’d already been out that day riding his bike with Jill and the Secret service entourage.
‘Yep, my ancestors were Irish, the fighting kind,’ he said to himself with a smile. ‘There’s no other kind of Irish.’
‘Now, what in hell would I do if I retired?’
‘Nothing is the answer. Sure, there’s always the writing of my memoirs… but it doesn’t pull me… I’m just not ready for it… let others write about me.’
‘I keep hearing people say I’m too old… that I’d be starting my second term when I’m 82… so?’
‘I’m pushing the boundaries of the possible… and I don’t have to wait for anyone to tell me that the more active I am the longer I’ll live. I know that in my bones.’
He paused, turned his swiveling chair around to face the window. It was a beautiful day.
‘Hell, I love being president. I can see why Trump didn’t want to give it up, either, but he screwed up royally. I hope Republicans nominate him again… I’ll have a feast taking him down in public… cutting him down to…
