With a gentle squeeze of her wrist, the Senator relinquished control of Hillary’s hand. As she pulled her arm back across the table, it seemed to draw with it all the weighty introspection of the past hour, and Hillary couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this... light.
She rose.
Senator Warren mirrored her, brushing down the sides of her slacks as she stood in a quick, nervous motion that reminded Hillary of her high school beau wiping sweaty palms on his tux before holding hands with her in the driveway as they left for the dance.
But Elizabeth Warren’s hands were steady, cool, and dry.
“Well, I’m sure I’ve taken up more than my share of your time today.”
Hillary shook her head. “Not at all. Still, I’m sure the press are waiting to ambush you, and who am I to deprive them of the three-minute frenzy between my door and your car.”
The resulting laugh startled Hillary, once again, with that same eerie sincerity that had yet to abandon Warren’s smile. A half-breath of her own laughter snuck out in sympathy.
They walked to the door in an easy silence. Before she opened it, Hillary extended her hand. “I’m so glad we had this conversation, Senator. Your support… is incredibly valuable to this campaign.”
And , she admitted only in the safety of her own thoughts, suddenly... important to me.
“Thank you for having me...”
Hillary found herself locked in a comfortably firm handshake, trapped by the fierce, hopeful look in the Senator’s eyes.
“...and please. Call me Elizabeth.”
