George Washington was a dick

I was in the stately home fixing a display of fake plants and looking for my cat. My neighbor was a refined older woman, a genuine patrician. Her gray hair was parted in the center and ended in curls. She wore a black pant suit with large white buttons and a string of pearls. She stood erect and less walked and more glided across the plush white carpet. Yet she was friendly enough to me as she moved between rooms.

She announced the arrival of her husband. Holy shit, I thought to myself, it’s George Washington. I’m about to meet George Washington.

The two front doors opened in unison and Washington strode through them. It was almost as if he opened them with a wave of his hand.

His gray hair was pulled back into a tight knot. He wore no wig. He also wore a modern navy blue suit with a golden chain from one pocket on his vest to a pocketwatch in the other. He nose was thin and sharp, as were his limbs. He had a stern feel to him, like hardened steel just after being plunged into ice cold water.

Our eyes met as he walked through the room. His were full of contempt. I could almost hear his thoughts. “Are you trying to f**k Martha? Good luck, you little sh*t,” his eyes said.

I gathered my stuff. I was down with the fake plants and the cat had returned. With an eyebrow arched, he escorted me to the door and stood in the doorframe as I walked out. The cat scampered ahead of me and fell into an open-air sunken kennel. I could hear it meowing.

“How do I get my cat,” I asked him. With his eyebrow still arched, he wordlessly shut the door.