“And that should be the last order of business for the day. Good meeting, everybody. Now, if our esteemed colleagues from the North wouldn’t mind too much I’d like to grab a few moments alone with the Prime Minister.”

No one was going to deny the leader of the free world that request. A minute of portfolios shuffling and chairs scuffing across the oak floor later the two men sat alone in the great room of state. Justin Trudeau, the new Prime Minister of Canada, had just arrived in Washington, D.C., for a state dinner with President Obama; their two delegations had just finished up a formal meeting in advance of the evening’s festivities. They sat facing across from one another in the large room.

“So, congratulations again on your election. I’ve been impressed by your progress these first few months,” said Obama.

Trudeau blushed. “Oh—thank you, you too!” The flush in his cheeks deepened as he went to correct himself. “I mean, not you too, because you were elected ages ago, but —well, not that I’m not impressed by you, but-" he laughed nervously and looked away, cringing inwardly at how badly he’d already messed up this first impression.

“Hey there, no reason to get flustered,” said Obama as he walked up and took a seat closer to Trudeau. “Don’t worry about me being the President. You’re a fine young liberal leader. I’m the one who should be intimidated by you! So vivacious, so full of soul—those are attractive qualities for any… electorate.”

Trudeau giggled. Barack really could put him at ease.

“We’re just two world leaders hanging out, you know?” he continued. “Here, I’ll prove it to you: let’s talk ISIS.”

Trudeau felt relieved at this: he was pretty sure he could speak about policy without embarrassing himself. Both he and the President took out an agenda and a pen as Trudeau began to speak.

“Well, um, as you probably know, I’ve decided to end Canada’s involvement in airstrikes on ISIS bases. As far as we’re concerned airstrikes are expensive, they cost innocent lives and we believe that ISIS is far less pressing of a threat than, um, things that kill people every day in Canada: heart attacks, car crashes, poverty. I know that contradicts your government’s position, but …"

“Absolutely it contradicts our position. But how do you think I could possibly sell that to the American people? I can’t just say ‘sorry America, but to be honest the terrorists are less of a danger to you than the fact you’re all overweight and bad at driving.’ What would they think of me?”

Trudeau felt something in the air change. He could tell Barack really was listening to him on this. He took a risk and suddenly moved over to sit right next to the American commander in chief.

“Well, you know Barack … Sometimes you just have to ignore what people think about you … and just do what feels right.” He put a hand on the President’s shoulder. “… You know what I mean?”

Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox Signup for our editorially curated, weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.

Obama took in the young man before him. Lithe, healthy, with twinkish good looks—Trudeau reminded him of himself, at the start of his presidency. In a sense, he admired that about the Canadian premier; but there was something more there. Because in another, strange sense, Obama resented Trudeau. He knew that ultimately, Trudeau would be able to fulfill so much more of his potential—to further the liberal agenda without facing the obstacles of a deadlocked legislature and a hyperpolarized country. This rakish statesman with whom he had locked eyes represented everything he had ever wanted – but that he could never have. Desire burned in him – desire to see the things he had long fantasized of realized.

“Say it, Justin.”

“What?”

“Say what you’re thinking. Say something forbidden. Something dirty. Say something so damn liberal it’d make Bill O’Reilly have an aneurism.”

There was silence. Trudeau stared at Obama in shock—but only for a moment. There was something desperate about Barack right now. Something that needed release. He had the President of the United States in the palm of his hand—and he was going to milk it for all it was worth.

“I’m going to march at Toronto Pride.”

Barack’s breath stuck in his throat.

“I’m raising my son to be a feminist, and I said so on camera.”

The President leaned in closer towards Trudeau.

“I openly refer to myself as a lapsed Catholic.”

“Oh my God!” sighed Barack. “You’re so left wing Justin! Don’t stop, please, don’t stop!” At this point they were both scribbling furiously in their agendas, never breaking eye contact.

“Your turn,” smirked Trudeau. “Tell me your fantasy. Tell me your dirtiest, most liberal fantasies for America. Don’t hold back.”

“I want a single-payer healthcare system. No more insurance company control. Complete European-style socialism, baby.”

“Yeah you do!” Trudeau egged him on. “What else do you want?”

“Oh my goodness … Oh wow. I want to … I want to get rid of the Second Amendment! Totally gone. Destroy it! Tear it up, yeah!”

“Yeah Barack, realize that socialist utopia!”

“And I want to accept all the Syrian refugees!” Barack yelled. “No vetting. No waitlists. Let them all in. Build houses all across the country for them to live in, warm and clothed and fed, integrated into the local community – all of them! All the Syrian immigrants! Every last one!” At this stage they had been writing so vigorously in their agendas that much of the paper had become torn up.

“Well you know what, Barack?” Trudeau whispered. “I am doing that. I’m letting 20,000 Syrian refugees into Canada.”

“Oh my God Justin, YES! Take it! Take it! Take those Syrian refugees I’m politically unable to!”

They went on like that for an hour—their policies bumping up against one another, their shrewd political minds probing one another’s policy prescriptions in a firework display of Socratic inquiry. From that night on they became political allies—ideological bed buddies.

But they did not have sex, however. I want to make that entirely clear—absolutely no sex was had. Nothing just described was sexual. A literal description of sex would not make it past The Chronicle’s editors and so this was obviously not sex. This column imagines only a speculative meeting between two national leaders and a political discussion they might have had. Thank you for keeping this in mind and I hope the entirely platonic scenes imagined above keep you well for the rest of your day.

Bron Maher is a Trinity senior. His column runs on alternate Wednesdays.