Mach and Mac // [Machiavelli/Mariah Blitz]

M A R I A H  M A C

With the debate over, I can finally take a breath and start to relax. It was almost like an interrogation of my character, personality over politics, and I could sense that the candidate on the other end of the phone was not happy with my approach. But that doesn't matter—she's in Four and I'm in Eight. The likelihood of us ever meeting is next to nothing.

Amongst the crowd of old people who smell like soap, there is a young man who gussies himself up to talk to me. Fine cheekbones, chiseled jaw, dark hair—there's something familiar about him. I hope he's not an ex-lover. I eye him as he approaches but can't seem to put my finger on it. Not that I'd want to, anyway, but when he extends a calloused hand to shake mine, I know I have to. I can only smile. "Mach, that's such a great name. I love it!" 

He says that it is refreshing to hear someone so honest, and I completely agree. Perhaps I am not the only one in this District who is tired of empty promises and policies that are kept in lock and key until they are implemented. Change is not only good, but necessary, and I'd be such a gorgeous change in Eight. "Your words mean the world to me, thank you, really, from the bottom of my heart." I look him in the eyes—solemn, but accepting. "I think what we need is a fresh perspective, authenticity and beauty. It's what I want to give Eight, and with your vote, your trust, I can do that."