Jane and Dick allowed themselves a mental health day.

They debated where to go for breakfast. Jane held out for beignets.

Around noon they climbed out of the Smithsonian Metro station and strolled arm-in-arm through the National Mall.

They sang calliope tunes on the carousel that was a rendezvous point when they first fell in love. Food trucks were parked exactly where they were supposed to be.

As they worked their way back to Columbia Heights, they flirted with a hopeful Japanese Chin at a rescue shelter and made silly faces for toddlers at a playground (other people’s kids are so cute).

They bought tequila and limes, and as they watched night came on they downed a pitcher of margaritas between them.

Not long ago the evening would have turned physical but things have changed since Dick and Jane lost their White House jobs. Gone is that incredibly powerful aphrodisiac rush they got from inventing fictions that were repeated on Fox News.

Being unemployed, Jane and Dick couldn’t afford not to hire Maria José as a cleaning lady.

The minimum wage in the District is $15 per hour but Maria José, fresh across the border and not knowing a word of American, agreed to work for $7.50.

With every dollar Dick and Jane would pay, they would earn a dollar in savings. Maria José’s services would pay for themselves.

The couple had worked on White House policy promoting a wall to stop undocumented immigrants. But what they did not believe in was victimizing good Americans who employed them.

Maria José was an absolute angel, grateful to earn whatever she could. Dick and Jane took genuine pride knowing they were saving her from a life of certain prostitution.

“We already think of you as one of the family.” They said as they paid for her 3-hour tryout in cash.

“Same time next week?” Jane asked.

Maria José answered with some Spanishy sounding words.

“Awesome. It’s settled then.” Jane said.

The thrilled couple were puzzled and a little hurt that they never saw Maria José again. Maybe they had been wrong about her work ethic.

Two officers approached Jane’s BMW without drawing their weapons.

They directed her to lower her window and show her license, vehicle registration and proof of insurance.

Jane included her White House ID for good measure.

“Been drinking, Ms. Doe?” one officer asked.

One beer, Jane said. She explained she was simply exhausted from a grueling day at the White House defending the police from bullshit media criticism.

“Thank you for that, Ma’am. But we can’t let you back behind the wheel.”

“We’re just a block over.”

“Wouldn’t be prudent, Ma’am.”

“I’m grateful to find myself in such strong and capable hands, officers.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Officers Schwartz and Fitzwilliams drove the damsel in distress home and offered her husband a ride back to the Beemer.

“You’re lucky that you’re a beautiful woman.” Dick told her the next morning. It wasn’t a compliment.

This was the third DUI Jane had sashayed out of since they’d met.

No one tried to force them off the road. No one planted a racehorse’s head in their bed.

The message came at them from a very different angle.

“Log on to your Chase account.” it said.

Dick and Jane saw a deposit they didn’t recognize.

The former White House staffers have been subpoenaed to testify in the Capitol riot trials. They helped create the Big Lie that the election was stolen. The rioters claim they were following orders from the defeated president.

Jane and Dick won’t be able to fall back on the conspiracy theories they’ve repeated again and again. Every word they utter under oath will be compared to their emails, texts and memos.

“You as worried as I am?” Dick asked Jane.

“I’m scared fucking shitless, Dicky.” she replied.

Jane and Dick have gone through the denial stage of grief.

They’ve accepted they can no longer afford fancy prepared meals with Cucumber Avocado Rolls, Paleo Friendly Salmon and Ultra Green Spanakopita.

Not even for the health of their future children can they justify organic produce.

Their unemployment benefits are not as generous as their old boss claims. The young marrieds have wisely agreed not to waste money on junk food like poor people do.

“We’ll bend but we won’t break. If we can’t eat organic cassava, we’ll eat regular cassava.” Dick chirped.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, you pathetic, unemployed little man.” Jane shouted. “My mother was right about you all along.”

Jane has moved into the second stage of grief, the anger stage, without realizing it.