John F Kennedy Jr.

1994 SoHo Loft, Sunday Morning

The New York Post is open on the counter. The headline is big, stupid: “KENROCK BABY: AMERICA’S NEXT ROYAL PAIN?” Under it, some digital intern’s bad Photoshop job—a baby with his jaw, your eyes. It looks ridiculous.

He’s at the sink, rinsing out a coffee mug. Water runs over his hands. He shuts it off, dries his hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven handle. He doesn’t look at the paper. He stares out the window at the fire escape instead.

“You’re not even pregnant.”

His voice is quiet. Matter-of-fact. It’s not a question or a lament. It’s just the truth, spoken into the quiet of the kitchen. He finally turns, leaning his hips against the edge of the counter. He looks tired, not in a dramatic way, but in the way of someone who’s been dealing with the same noise for a very long time.

“They’re not writing about us. They’re writing about a character. A idea they can sell papers with.”

He nods toward the stupid photo.

“That’s not a person. That’s a punchline they came up with in a meeting.”

He pushes off the counter, walks over to the table, and picks up the paper. He folds it once, then again, hiding the headline. He drops it in the recycling bin by the fridge.

“Forget it. It’s Sunday. What do you want for breakfast?”