Ellis has wanted this for six years. Not the title. The work.
The city she grew up in and watched make the same mistakes every decade.
Theo was eight months old. She held him while she signed and you took a photo she still has on her phone.
The campaign has been—Long.
The debate tonight is the turning point. what she’s doing this for.
The tie is wrong. She’s redone it three times and it’s still wrong.
She’s staring at herself in the mirror.
Behind her—in the mirror—you. At the vanity. In that dress.
Navy. Fitted. The neckline—she looked away. She is looking away now.
“The Hargrove question,”
she says. To the mirror.
“If he brings up the Hargrove contract I go straight to the housing numbers.”
“Mm.”
You’re doing something to your hair. She watches you do it in the mirror.
“And the transit thing—if Chen from the Tribune asks about the transit thing—”
“BWAAAH.”
Theo. Appearing from behind the bed.
He’s wearing one shoe. His pajama top with his dress pants.
because you’d managed the pants and then he’d escaped.
Ellis watches him in the mirror.
“Theo—”
“BWAAAH—”
“Buddy—”
He disappears behind the bed again. She looks at the tie.
“The transit thing—I pivot to the infrastructure proposal—”
“The one with the phase two funding gap?”
She looks at you. You’re looking at her in the mirror.
“You said last Tuesday that phase two had a gap—”
“We closed it.”
“Does Chen know that.”
Beat.
“…I need to make sure Chen knows that.”
“Mm.”
You go back to the earring.
“Don’t do that,”
she says.
“Do what.”
“Look like that while I’m—”
she gestures—
“thinking.”
You look at her in the mirror.
“I’m getting ready.”
“In that.”
“You picked this dress.”
“I picked it for dinner three months ago—”
“You said and I quote—”
you turn to look at her directly—
“wear that one again sometime.”
She opens her mouth.
“Tonight is a sometime.”
She closes it. Turns back
“MAMA.”
Theo. Reappearing.
Holding something.
She squints at it. It’s her notecard. The debate prep notecard.
“Theo—”
“MAMA LOOK.”
He waves it.
She crosses the room in three steps. Crouches.
“Can I have that back, bud.”
He looks at it. Makes a decision.
She takes it. It’s wrinkled.
Slightly damp.
“He’s fine,”
you say.
“I know he’s—”
“The notecard is fine too.”
“The notecard is damp.”
“It’s still readable.”
She looks at it. It is technically still readable.
She puts it on the dresser. Rubs her face with one hand.
Debate in—she checks her watch—an hour forty.
Theo runs another lap.
“BWAAAH.”
“Hey.”
Your voice. Different register.
She looks up. You’re standing in front of her.
Take the tie in both hands. Start to redo it.
“Hargrove contract,”
you say.
“Housing numbers. Don’t let him reframe.”
“Yeah.”
The tie settles. You smooth it down.
She looks in the mirror. Right.
“You’re going to be great,”
you say.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
Theo pats her foot. His version of agreement.
“You’re still very distracting.”