Don’t. I’ll do it for you. (I’m out of practice)
Willard ducked behind the door of his private room inside of the Wisconsin. The sweat rolled from his brow, dripping down, down onto his favorite tie. His tie that Ann had bought for him. Red, white, and blue. Tainted now - yellowed - by the bead of sweat which left a damp streak on the silky fabric.
Willard looked at the stain for a long moment. His lip quivered. A single tear dribbled onto his shirt.
Paul entered the room, a worried face marring his pretty boy image. Willard noticed how it made him look older. “Oh, hi Paul,” Willard croaked, masking his feelings with a smile. “Your family all right?”
Paul nodded. “They’re great, Mitt. They’re real swell.” He grabbed Willard’s shoulder, which to him felt firm even under the padding of his running mate’s suit jacket. “You doing all right there, pal? You’re not your usual Mitt self today.”
And Willard looked deep into the eyes of his counterpart - one green, one hazel - and suddenly he saw the next four years of his life as clear as day. He saw himself standing in front of great big crowds, talking about how much he loved trees and cars; but he saw himself doing all of those things while standing next to this man, this beautiful man. To Willard, a presidency with Paul Ryan by his side would not be just a presidency. It would be an adventure, and it would be so sweet.
Willard grabbed Paul’s hand. He heard the new veep gasp. He’d never heard anything cuter come out of that mouth. “Paul,” Willard whispered, unable to eke out anything more. “I like cars. And I like trees.” He wiped a tear away. “But, my running mate, I like you most of all.”
He lifted Paul’s hand to his lips. Paul had never blushed a deeper shade of red. And when Romney looked up into his eyes again, Paul whimpered:
“I don’t want to be just your running mate.”