It was a hot and steamy night. In an office just down the hall from the Oval one, two men labored into the wee hours.
The tall, buff, hairless one paced the richly appointed room reading a memo given to him by the soft round man who reclined on an overstuffed leather loveseat. Their shirt sleeves were rolled up, ties loosened for comfort. The ice in their highballs condensed onto the surface of the crystal tumblers, dripping slowly down onto the mahogany surface of the magnificent desk. Time seemed to stand still.
"We've got to share this. It's just too good," said Baldy. "We can cut Wilson off at the knees. Where'd you get this?"
Puffy replied, "Let's just say I have my sources."
They both laughed. Their eyes met in a moment of profound longing. The sexual tension was palpable.
"Shouldn't I sign out soon?"
"The hell with that. The Service never checks those logs anyway. Now come here."
Note to self at 4:53 a.m.: What could have caused such a nightmare? Must shower.