By Sam Jarvis
The sun poured over the gilded hilltops, pulling soft focus onto the wide brim of her hat and the speckled shadows it projected on her chest. A gold necklace, suspended in the moment, spelled Blue Ivy. Beyoncé took a small sip of the bordeaux in front of her, glanced at the legs running down the glass without interest. She shrugged, pleased enough, and took another sip.
“Do you have anything lighter?” Michelle Obama asked a server as she sat across from Bey in a plush terry cloth robe, her slippers like clouds yielding a warm embrace. The two had never truly been away together, yet only a few hours into their Napa adventure, had decided they would make it an annual tradition. Both bad bitches, it was rare to get the chance to live out their basic bitch dreams of cucumber water and hot stone massages and wine, ah yes, all the wine.
Beyoncé had been quiet today, even in the dope ass jet on the way up, seemingly preoccupied in deep concentration. Michelle thought that she was probably stressed about her new album, which is what Bey hoped she would assume. Beyoncé could never admit to her the real truth behind her reticence, that she was trying to think of another catch phrase to coin once all of her Boy, Bye merchandise had run out.
The reason she would never tell Michelle this was because although she acted like Michelle’s equal, B knew deep down that Michelle was making real changes in the world; that she’d never had to stand flanked by two other women, all in the same printed pattern but different cuts of fabric while being interviewed by Kurt Loder. Michelle Obama’s mother would never have designed her outfits, surely, Beyoncé thought.
But as Beyoncé sat in silence, sipping the deep red that she thought was just okay, Michelle had a similar struggle. She had always been proud of Barack, always been proud to serve her country as best she could. But here sat Beyoncé, this goddess of swagger, who was doing something so free, so cool. Michelle wanted to bash in a car window with a baseball bat for a music video, you know? It sounded silly in her head, she would never say it out loud. Her thoughts were halted by the breezy softness of Beyoncé voice.
“Should we get a charcuterie board?” She asked, hoping Michelle would say yes because Bey could really go for some fucking prosciutto right now. Michelle smiled before adding,
It was this calm, confident quiet that they both enjoyed in each other. It may have looked strange or perhaps awkward to passersby, but they were comfortable with one another in that way sisters are. They could sit in the sun all day without worry or commentary. It was nice to know another badass motherfucker who enjoyed a little R&R.
The ring of Beyoncé’s phone interrupted the quiet, and it occurred to Michelle as it rang that she had never heard Beyoncé’s ring tone before. *NSync’s Pop didn’t seem like the obvious choice but as it rang, Beyoncé looking at the screen deciding if she wanted to answer it, Michelle realized that it really was the right song for her.
“Hey Jay,” Beyoncé started. She waited as he spoke, expressionless and unfazed. “It’s just Hidden Valley Ranch Dip. You mix it with a tub of sour cream. Yes, that’s it.” She hung up, put her phone on Do Not Disturb. She glanced up at Michelle, almost embarrassed to have taken the call, and so Michelle chimed in.
“That ranch dip is good.”
“He loves it.” Beyoncé exhaled, letting the dry sun hit her arms as the brim of her hat dipped away from it. Michelle took a sip of wine and looked out over the vast vineyard before them. It was nice for them both, to have a break.
Read more of my short fiction here.
Sam Jarvis is a comedy writer currently writing for Tosh.0. This is her website where she publishes lots of weird shit. She hates talking in the third person, so will stop doing that now.