If Alexander Hamilton Were Your Boyfriend
(This didn’t make it onto The Toast when it was still publishing [long may it reign in our hearts], but I had so much fun writing it that I’m posting it to Tumblr now that The Toast is no more.) If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, he would text you photos of The Obamas captioned “Relationship Goals.” The first time he Instagrammed a photo of the two of you, it would say “power couple.” You’d tease him about it, but you’d wear a suit that day.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, you would buy a Groupon for ballroom dancing lessons on a whim, but the two of you would turn out to be surprisingly good at it. On the advice of your teacher, you would enter a local competition and come in third. Standing on the makeshift podium, Alexander would beam at you, then whisper “next time, we’ll be up there,” nodding to the First Place platform.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, you would be taller than him in heels and he would be really into it.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, Martha Washington would take a while to warm up to you, but just about when you’d given up on being friends, she would start inviting you to hang out and the two of you would really click. One evening, after a few drinks, you’d work up the nerve to ask what took so long. “I wasn’t sure you’d be around for long,” Martha would say bluntly. When you affected indignation, she’d gently elbow you in the ribs. “Come on. No one thought the Tom Cat would ever settle down.” You’d laugh, and grudgingly see her point. “Glad he figured out you’re a keeper though.”
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, he would write you letters, even when you started living together. On paper, in script, honest to god letters.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, you would slowly teach him to appreciate the beauty of a lazy Sunday. After rattling off some of the DIY projects you could tackle or charity luncheons you could make appearances at, you would reply “OR, we could stay right here,” rolling over and draping your leg across him, trapping him inescapably. “You make a compelling argument,” he would concede.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, you would read the Financial Times almost every day. This would not make you more of a capitalist.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, it wouldn't be unusual to wake up in the middle of the night to a light creeping under the office door, him back at his desk working. "I didn't mean to wake you," he'd say, still nose deep in paper. Sometimes you'd lay a hand on his shoulder and it would be enough to get him to come back to bed. Other nights, you’d pull up a chair, put your glasses back on, and grab a stack of papers to start editing. “Everything sounds better once you’ve taken a pass over it, babe,” he’d cajole. And it really does.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, you’d enjoy evenings in, small dinner parties, a few pints at the pub, going to the movies. Just old fuddy duddies, you’d joke together. But every so often, you’d go out with his friends, his boys, and really tear up the town. The next morning, gingerly sipping Gatorade, you’d say “we are never doing that again,” through a grin and a wink.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, you would not feel like you were in costume when wearing a fascinator. It would just work.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, he’d roll over, the morning after a particularly long debate over whether Batman could beat Superman in a fight, to find you already up, with your laptop ready to show him a well researched website about the availability of kryptonite on Earth. “See?” you’d say. And instead of telling you that you care too much about winning trivial arguments, he would tell you that your brain is the hottest things about you. “Well, one of the hottest,” he’d say, closing the lid to your laptop.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, you would be late to things all of the time because you got caught up tag teaming an argument on the internet.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, he would very politely chuckle at every “ten dollar” pun your dad came up with.
If Alexander Hamilton were your boyfriend, he would see you being hassled at the bar by some bros and stand abruptly, sending his wooden chair screeching across the floor, ready to stomp over. But you’d gesture, just slightly, and he would pause, giving you time to deliver a truly scathing assessment of your harassers, who would back off immediately. “That was brilliant,” he’d tell you as you returned to the table with two ciders. The bros would call their mothers and donate to Planned Parenthood the next day.
