An annoying dream that Donald Trump had inserted himself into our daily lives. “Let’s get some dinner tonight,” he would say too early in the day, 4 PM, already lining up a place. “I’ll buy the wine.” We would search the insides of our heads, then one another’s eyes, scrambling for an excuse, any other commitment, anything. He’d gotten us, again.

Donald Trump would call us at the worst times, when we were busy trying to do something important, and he would blather on for hours about nothing, or worse than nothing, his stupid obsessions and vendettas, his preoccupations with fancy ties and golf courses, places and things where we really should invest, blah blah blah and Mike would make a face at me, can’t I cut it short, he would pantomime, wrap it up, and I would mouth back at Mike I’m trying, I’m really trying, trying to, bye, Donald, yes, that’s great, but I really gotta go, Donald, no, seriously, I have to go. Donald.

Donald calls, the worst time, while we’re at some party that is not about him, and he says to me, “I got this app on my phone, it’s a new app, a great app, it’s called Mushroom, kind of a dating app, lots of tips on how to score, if you know what I mean, Jason, and I think you do, Jason, how come I never see you with a gorgeous someone, Jason?” and I respond, at the end of my rope, “You do, Donald. It’s Mike, Donald. You haven’t picked that up? Really? I’ve been scoring with Mike for eighteen years.” And there’s a long, awkward silence as Donald processes, followed by some furtive goodbyes, no plans for dinner this evening, just a click and silence. I look up with glee and tell everyone at the party that I’ve finally gotten Donald Trump to stop calling me.