Q Report; Donald and Pete ∞
It was cold in Duluth, but not the kind of cold that bites. It was the kind that hugs too tight without permission. Pete Stauber laced up his skates and looked up just in time to see Donald Trump slipping on a patch of ice and catching himself on a confused 12-year-old wearing a Wild jersey. “Oh my God,” Pete said, his breath blooming into a heart-shaped puff. Trump straightened himself, adjusted his signature red tie (now speckled with slush) and barked a laugh. “See? Tremendous balance. They’re all saying it.” Pete skated over and took his hand. “Careful,” he whispered. “They’re watching.” Trump’s grip was warm and moist like a gas station hot dog. Together they wobbled out onto the rink, like two frozen swans desperate to mate but unsure of their ability. “You ever skate before?” Pete asked, trying to glide. “I own several rinks,” Trump said proudly, immediately falling. Pete caught him in his arms like a heroic closeted lifeguard. “Easy,” Pete said. “You’re not as young as ...
