by David Ross
She first encountered him in a bar.
In the darkness she glanced up at the television that rested on a shelf over the heads of the various bottles of booze and saw his face.
He looked out of the television at her as if he knew her every secret - as if he could not only feel her pain, but her pleasures as well.
She was drinking pretty steady that night, and the more she drank, the better he looked.
When she first tippled, that hillbilly accent of his had sounded pretty laughable. He was the kind of guy that if she had encountered him sober, she would have laughed in his face if he had suggested that he could get to first base with her. But the more she drank, the more sophisticated he sounded, the more . . . desirable he looked. The more charming his mendacities became.
He needed somebody . . . particularly because of that witchy wife of his. Although she could tell, just after listening to him for a few minutes, that he told the truth just about as often as a Texas horse fly bakes applesauce cakes, it didn't matter. He would be different with her. She would be able to reform him.
He talked convincingly about plying her with money (her own). He said he was different from all the ones that she'd known.
The next few hours were a blur, but she could vaguely remember staggering into some building draped with red, white and blue bunting and pulling on a lever.
The next morning she woke up with a ferocious headache. Her mouth tasted like an iguana had camped out on it. She turned her head on her pillow and cracked open one eye. A wrinkled ballot was resting on her hand. She saw the name she had marked on it.
God! Had she been that drunk? She felt like gnawing off her arm, like a coyote, so she wouldn't have to touch the ballot to get it off her. She felt like putting a bag over her head so she wouldn't be able to see what she had done. She felt like sticking her head down the toilet.
Of course, time and distance blurred the horror of her mistake. She paid a hasty visit to the gynecologist who dosed her up so that whatever she had caught didn't spread.
For a time she was worried that maybe there would be an unwanted little extra dividend that would result because of her indiscretion - But the only unwanted extra dividend who showed up was Al Gore. Oh, yeah, and her taxes went up.
Over the next four years she went through all the classic stages: denial, anger, remorse. She vowed never to fall under the slick spell of that television voodoo master ever again.
Then, four years later, to the day - she saw him again.
She melted. He was irresistible. He wove that old black magic again. Unwittingly, almost against her will, she went to the polls.
After all, it was just one little vote.