President Barack Obama.
I used to date President Barack Obama. It was the cold winter of 1979. The frigid temperatures were unusual for Honolulu, but I’ve always enjoyed winter fashion. Barry was on the cusp of manhood, only a few months away from his high school graduation. I’d ducked into a small cafe on the coast to catch my breath and artfully rearrange my scarf when a young man asked me for a light.
“Sure,” I said as I began to rummage through my purse.
I was so caught up in searching the insane depths of the bag that it wasn’t until I had retrieved the lighter and turned to hand it to him that I looked him full in the face. I tried not to tremble as I passed him the flame.
“Thanks,” he said, with a thousand-watt grin that should have melted the icy island into the rest of the Pacific.
“A clove?” I asked when I saw his cigarette was black and recognized the scent.
“Yeah, you want one?”
“I’ve got my own.”
I pulled one out of my purse and he lit it for me before returning my lighter.
Again, he smiled.
We spent that entire afternoon in a secluded corner of that cafe, smoking and trying every hot drink on the menu. Cappucinos, lattes, teas, I’ve no idea what all we drank. It was one of the more memorable days of my life. Young as he was, there was an innocent maturity behind his eyes, and a wisdom in his laugh.
The next two months were unforgettable. I have always treasured them. I’ll gladly tell anyone that I used to date Barack and the cigarette kinship that brought us together, but the rest of our story is one I’ll take to the grave.
I’d be lying if I said I knew then all he would come to accomplish, although I can’t say I’m surprised at all.
We don’t speak as often as either of us would like. He’ll call, somtimes, if he needs a lift or a laugh, and I do my best to have him crack that smile so bright I can nearly hear it through the phone.
