They met outside the building. Glass and lights and reflections. “Not My President” her sign said. “I Didn’t Vote For This F*cker” was emblazoned across his in smudged red paint.
They chanted and marched with all the others, and their eyes flirted, caressed, undressed and made love in the space between them.
When she slipped away, she knew he would follow.
Her lips were chapped from the biting wind, dry and rough and cold against his own, and he was delighted to find her bare when he slipped a hand inside her pants and felt the smooth, damp skin against his fingers. She bit his neck and caressed his erection through his jeans, stroking it and revelling in the power she held over him.
When he came with gasps and groans, she held his gaze and smiled, silently promising more, later, again, forever.
Hand in hand, they returned, took up their placards and shouted all the louder, their passion renewed, their resolve strengthened.