Seattle, Washington "Man, being president sucks."

"Try being married to the bozo who's always complaining about how much being president sucks."

Kipper flinched as Barb pinched a small fold of skin just below his Adam's apple while trying to fasten the top of his dress shirt.

"Oh my God, Kip. You are such a baby. It's lucky none of your marines can see you right now."

"They're not my marines," he protested, finally stepping away from his wife to peer around her shoulder at the full-length mirror in the bedroom of their private quarters.

Hmmph. He was a wearing a fucking penguin suit. With tails and everything. It was all he could do not to make little barking penguin noises.

"Do I really have to do-"

"Yes, Kip. You really have to. It's part of the job."

"But poetry…"

Kip turned from the mirror as Barbara fiddled with her earrings at the antique dresser in their bedroom.

"Come on, Kip," she teased. "Rhyming couplets aren't the worst things you've had thrown at you the last couple of years. It might even be fun."

Maybe. If he was allowed to get a few beers in, and who knew, the poems might even rhyme. He could hear the musicians, some sort of small local chamber orchestra, playing downstairs. Violin music and the growing murmur of a small crowd pushed up through the dark wooden floorboards of their bedroom. Kipper mentally ticked off the hour, at least, he would have to wait before ripping the top off his first brew.

"Mister President, if you're ready, sir."

Barbara smiled at their protocol chief. "Oh, Allan, he'll never be ready, but I've done the best I can. Let's go downstairs."

Kipper hadn't seen anyone appear at their door, but he wasn't surprised to find him there. Privately he referred to Allan Horbach, the White House protocol chief, as Casper because he was always spooking around somewhere, although admittedly Kipper needed more protocol wrangling than your average president.