I may be president of the United States, but my private life is

Host: The night was heavy with fog, draping over the Capitol like a tired ghost. Streetlamps burned low, their light smudged by mist, reflecting against wet cobblestones that had seen too many promises washed away by rain.

Inside a small bar near the Potomac, the kind frequented by journalists, lobbyists, and dreamers who’d lost their way, Jack sat in a corner booth, his tie loosened, his eyes grey with thought. The television above the bar hummed with muted political debates, captions scrolling endlessly across the screen like a nation arguing with itself.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her drink — whiskey on ice — the amber glow catching her eyes, deep and unguarded.

The rain outside beat softly on the window, a rhythm both private and public, much like the quote that had drawn them into discussion tonight.

Jeeny: “Chester A. Arthur once said, ‘I may be president of the United States, but my private life is nobody’s damned business.’ What do you think of that, Jack?”

Jack: (smirking slightly) “I think he was right. A man’s private life should be his own, even if he’s sitting in the Oval Office. Leadership doesn’t erase humanity.”

Host: A neon sign flickered outside — the word OPEN glowing faintly, as if reminding them that some doors, even in the darkest hours, stayed lit for the weary.

Jeeny: “But when you lead millions, your private life shapes public trust. It’s not just about secrets, Jack — it’s about integrity. People have a right to know the kind of person they’ve given power to.”

Jack: “No, they have a right to know how he governs — not how he lives. We elect minds, not diaries.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe character and leadership are connected?”

Jack: “I believe results are. Character is just what we project when the camera’s on. Look at Kennedy — flawed, reckless, but visionary. His personal chaos didn’t stop him from inspiring a generation.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter in silence, the soft hum of a refrigerator filling the background. The bar smelled of wood, smoke, and the faint tang of rain seeping through the old windows.

Jeeny: “But don’t you think the private self reveals the true self? If a person lies in their personal life, why wouldn’t they lie in office?”

Jack: “Because one is emotional, the other is transactional. A man can fail in love and still stand firm in duty. Jefferson had affairs, Lincoln battled depression — yet history forgave them because their public truth outweighed their private flaws.”

Jeeny: (her tone tightening) “Forgave them, yes. But maybe only because we didn’t hold them accountable. Power loves privacy, Jack — it breeds impunity.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “So you’re saying leaders should live under surveillance? That transparency equals morality?”

Jeeny: “No — I’m saying power and privacy should balance like justice and mercy. You can’t demand blind trust without openness. That’s not leadership; that’s worship.”

Host: Thunder rolled faintly in the distance, and the lights flickered once, as if the storm itself was weighing the argument. Jack leaned back, his hands clasped, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “But where’s the line, Jeeny? If every leader’s private life becomes public property, no one with honesty left will dare to serve. You’ll only get actors who’ve mastered their own performance.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But we already live in that theatre. People stage their lives for approval — presidents just have bigger audiences.”

Host: Her words landed with quiet gravity. The rain outside grew steadier, a soft murmur against glass. Jack’s eyes shifted toward it, as if trying to trace meaning in the motion of falling water.

Jack: “Arthur was a strange man. He stepped into power after Garfield’s assassination — nobody believed in him. But he rebuilt the civil service system, defied his party’s corruption. He was a ghost president who did something real. Maybe his privacy gave him that freedom.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it let him hide. We still know so little about his life. No diaries, no confessions — he burned his letters before he died. That’s not privacy, Jack. That’s erasure.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe he wanted to be remembered for his work, not his wounds.”

Jeeny: “But the wounds make the work. If leaders hide their humanity, they teach us that strength means silence — that vulnerability has no place in power. And that lie poisons everything.”

Host: The silence stretched. The bar had emptied, leaving only the two of them, their voices echoing softly against the old brick walls. Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her glass, as if sketching the shape of something invisible — conviction, maybe, or longing.

Jack: “You really think transparency breeds trust? I think it breeds spectacle. Look at today — people don’t want truth; they want scandal. A mistake becomes clickbait, and suddenly the work doesn’t matter.”

Jeeny: “Because they’ve been lied to too long. Every cover-up makes people hungrier for blood. Maybe if leaders were honest about being human, we wouldn’t need to crucify them for it.”

Jack: “So you’d rather a president confess on camera — ‘Here are my sins, here’s my soul’? Would that make you trust him more?”

Jeeny: “Not confession — honesty. The difference between secrecy and privacy is intent. One hides from shame; the other protects dignity. When Arthur said his private life was nobody’s business, he was right — but only if his private choices didn’t betray the public’s faith.”

Host: The rain slowed. A single drop traced down the window, illuminated by passing headlights, like a silver tear on the glass. Jack watched it fall, his voice softening.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the point — the world doesn’t separate public from private anymore. Everyone’s a brand. Everyone’s a headline waiting to happen. Maybe Arthur was lucky to live in a time when you could still protect your inner life.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he just had the privilege of secrecy. A woman in power wouldn’t have been allowed that same silence.”

Jack: (pausing, realizing) “…You’re right.”

Host: The admission hung like smoke — fragile, dissolving slowly into the air. The bar’s lights dimmed further, leaving only the faint glow of the streetlamp outside, stretching across their faces like a line between worlds.

Jack: “So what’s the answer, then? Privacy or accountability?”

Jeeny: “Both. But neither without conscience.”

Jack: “And what do we do when the world demands to know everything?”

Jeeny: (gently) “We give them truth — but not our entire soul.”

Host: The storm outside finally broke, clearing into quiet. The city lights shimmered against the wet streets, each reflection a fragment of something larger — the endless argument between what we owe the world and what we keep for ourselves.

Jack lifted his glass, his eyes meeting hers across the dim table.

Jack: “To truth, then — but not exposure.”

Jeeny: “To privacy — but never to secrecy.”

Host: They drank in silence. Outside, the fog began to lift. The Capitol dome stood faintly visible again through the clearing mist, like an idea reborn after doubt — fragile, luminous, and real.