O

21

ne Saturday evening at the end of May, Barack took me out on a date. In
the four months since becoming president, he’d been spending his days working
on ways to fulfill the various promises made to voters during the campaign; now
he was making good on a promise to me. We were going to New York, to have
dinner and see a show.

For years in Chicago, our date nights had been a sacred part of every week,
an indulgence we built into our lives and protected no matter what. I love talking
to my husband across a small table in a low-lit room. I always have, and I expect I
always will. Barack is a good listener, patient and thoughtful. I love how he tips
his head back when he laughs. I love the lightness in his eyes, the kindness at his
core. Having a drink and an unrushed meal together has always been our pathway
back to the start, to that first hot summer when everything between us carried an
electric charge.

I dressed up for our New York date, putting on a black cocktail dress and
lipstick, styling my hair in an elegant updo. I felt a fluttering excitement at the
prospect of a getaway, of time alone with my husband. In the last few months,
we’d hosted dinners and gone to Kennedy Center performances together, but it
was almost always in an official capacity and with lots of other people. This was
to be a true night off.

Barack had dressed in a dark suit with no tie. We kissed the girls and my
mom good-bye in the late afternoon and walked hand in hand across the South
Lawn and climbed onto Marine One, the presidential helicopter, which took us
to Andrews Air Force Base. We next boarded a small Air Force plane, flew to
JFK Airport, and were then helicoptered into Manhattan. Our movements had