A Romance Undocumented

Chapter 2: Uncharacteristic Feelings

Jeffersons pov:

As I pace the foggy room, my mind races. I am sure I must look like a mad man as my legs try to keep up with my mind. On my way home from a meeting with James Madsion I don't think I have ever been more upset. Sleep is just out of arm's reach, but I am absolutely red hot. I can feel a fire starting in me. The more I pace the easier it is to place my anger. Recently, my hatred has been clouded with a confusing overcast of competition with Hamilton, but this is no longer a competition. This is our country. Each plan Hamilton shared stroked the flames of the growing fire inside me; however, this was like he poured gasoline all over my foundation I built for America and lit the place up with the drop of a match and a tiny 'oops'.

The federalist party makes me sick with grief. Trying to keep their monarchical and elite ideas under wraps exhausts me to the core. It feels like my body and mind are both always running on high alert. The formality of their thoughts and actions are the very thing we, as a country, tried to escape. My anger filled me so sharply and fully that my vision began to cloud at the corners with a fiery red. A national bank is an absolute abomination and the fact that Washington was the one to sign the bill into a law makes me shake with rage. Not to mention the tariffs and taxes. Is this not what we tried to evade from the British?

Suddenly I thought of Hamilton's gentle interaction with me days ago. How we sat in the room together for hours just for company and no ulterior motives. I thought of the pride I felt after telling him off and standing my ground. Speaking my mind has never been something I am particularly confident in doing. I stumble on my words, and my voice doesn't carry much, but in that particular moment my hatred seemed to elevate every one of my deepest insecurities and paint them a glorious gold. 

I thought then of how he kept his idea of a national bank from me, and the completely unconstitutional idea has me categorizing this memory of a pleasant Hamilton as no longer gentle, but instead calculated. I quickly shove the look in his eyes when I caught him staring at me in a small box I could fix in the darkest corner of my mind. As well as the memory of his cheeks, stained a rosy red, when he caught my eye. I also tried to stop thinking of his brow furrowing together in deep concentration. I tried to stop thinking of the way his voice sounded when he got excited about something. I definitely tried to shove the feeling of his hand grazing mine when reaching for a letter, into the tiniest box I could find.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the mystery of my mind playing these moments before me like a film reel. As I start getting ready for bed I make sure the boxes are tightly secured in the deepest and darkest corners of my mind. Then as I close my eyes and sink into bed, I dream of Hamilton and his easy smile. However I am too tired to look into the technicality of the meaning behind my easy comfort. Instead, I hold the feeling close to me and drift off. For the first time in years I fall asleep without any fear of what the next day holds, an uncharacteristic feeling.