The rumors of JFK Jr. and Lady Di sharing a night were quickly dismissed by friends and associates. The great thing about being a writer is, you never dismiss a dream you can write into being . . .
John chuckled at the sight of her as the elevator navigated their departure from Room 817 to the lobby. Di wore her Philadelphia Eagles jacket and a pair of RayBans she liked to call “Billy Joel shades”. She confined her tousled hair inside a red US Open cap. What a beautiful mess she was.
“What?” She blushed.
John brought her in for a kiss, taking full advantage of the slow moving ride. “Even at six o’clock in the morning, you’re a princess.”
“And you sir, are a prince.” She said, keeping strongly to a smile even though her mind was drowning in melancholic waves at the idea this probably wasn’t going to happen again.
John sported a navy blazer and Yankees cap worn backwards. He would pound the pavement this morning, blow off some steam until it was a decent enough hour to call on his friend, Michael- his guy for all things domestic. John would bring pastries for his kids and flowers for his wife, the soft bribery of which would buy him some time to spill. Mike was the only person in the world John could trust to keep a lid on this tryst, and John needed to spill, if only to hear himself say the words.
It had been a moment- theirs- to steal from the spotlight and to dream of maybes, which, inside their light of day did not exist. This trans-continental pairing would have had the tabloids drooling for more, but the families were another story entirely. Dynasties were not nearly as considerate of fairytale pairings.
Most would find it impossible to understand how little autonomy the son of a former President and the woman who would have been Queen of England really possessed in their day to day lives. John thought back to something his Uncle Ted once said, “Being famous comes with plenty of fine print, little of which is fine with the person in question.”
The lobby of the Carlyle is a cramped slice of retro that is impossible to navigate without detection on most days. Its Sunday mood is a bit lazier, as John and Di slinked through their ruse with nary a tilted head being offered up in response to the handsome if a bit disheveled couple. Once they breached the awning which separated guests from passersby, they said their goodbyes; economical, vague and transient acknowledgements which belied the undeniable kismet that had consumed them inside of the moon’s best ideas.
John watched as Di walked away from him, her silver and green jacket remaining visible for several blocks. A part of him wanted to give chase, lift her in his arms, run away. Just run away. They could change their names, get odd jobs, move to the end of the world and never come back. And for a moment, John could almost feel his heart and his legs reach an agreement on things. And then she turned a corner and was gone from sight.
He lifted the collar of his blazer in meeting with the crisp morning air. His feet marched inside of dreams too large to understand.