WASHINGTON — I should be in the Headless House press gallery, covering the latest quest to win for speaker. But I’m “past” that, turning leaves of memory.

Over a long October, the Republican blood sport gets old. By now the white-guy contenders all look the same: destroyers, not builders, of the House. Especially you, Rep. Jim Jordan of Ohio, for whom life is just a wrestling match.

With bombs dropping in Israel and Ukraine, you’d hope House Republicans would sober up. The ouster of former Speaker Kevin McCarthy, R-Calif., and the failure to find a successor shows House Republicans aren’t at war only with Democrats, but at war within their walls.

That’s all I have to say about that.

First, I heard my English ex was in town with his third wife, dining with cousins. He zips across the pond a lot, but this was a bit close. A Cambridge classics man in his bloom and a hopeless Anglophile: What could go wrong?

Reader, I married him, lived in London to my heart’s content. But on some days, I felt like the ugly American driving on the wrong side of the social road. Cups of tea were not enough to console me.

We moved to California, where he found the sun’s “glare” too bright compared to London rain. A metaphor for our culture differences. The cut of our characters also intervened with our happiness. I felt ready to run across the Golden Gate Bridge.

Years later, we met at a June Champagne party, sat down and exchanged stories of our lives. Reminded of his wit, I felt the salve of time on any scars and felt pleased for how well he had done. He told me about meeting Nelson Mandela in South Africa.

Second, I just had the citrusy pleasure of seeing my ex-love on the top of the Sunday bestseller list. That’s where he was when first we met. It’s practically his backyard. I braced myself for this media moment, but still the oceanic wave hit, taking us back to delightful days in New Orleans, Santa Monica, San Francisco, the wine country, England and Madison, Wisconsin, even our college class reunions on the same weekend. Storybook.

What a talent for living. Grand, absolutely, and I knew how extraordinary our dreamy adventure was. I did not know it would go on as long as nothing went wrong. After about a year, it came crashing down in a way hard to take or believe, at least for me. He fled from the rain he saw in my eyes. I swear I saw him shed a tear.

Seven years on, we met by chance at a Washington bookstore, knowing each other’s voice. We sat down with coffee and hot chocolate for a last act. Married to his third wife. He drove by my family house once, where he had impishly chosen to wear one of my father’s African ties when he met him.

As we walked out: “Forgive me.”

“I think I have.”

In view of these memory leaves, I highly recommend historical boyfriends. They stay and can’t leave. Abraham Lincoln placed first in my pantheon, but my new beau is — wait for it — Aaron Burr.

Young Burr was dashing, brilliant and brave as a Revolutionary War officer. Rival Alexander Hamilton acted as General Washington’s teacher’s-pet aide at camp.

A Princeton man, Burr came from a great American blueblood family. Most histories don’t tell you his grandfather was the fiery Puritan preacher Jonathan Edwards.

The Broadway musical “Hamilton” twists the truth about Burr.

The standard account is the vice president killed Hamilton in the 1804 duel across the Hudson River. Burr’s always seen as the villain and Hamilton as a hero.

The truth is more complex. The duel was a tragedy because we lost the brightest Northern stars. Southern enslavers ruled the country.

What made me fall for Burr: He championed the rights of women. None of the other founders did, not John Adams even.

So I wrote a play, “Across the River,” to clear his lost good name. On its first outing Thursday, 200 people came out for his side of the story.

Burr and I are going places together.

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To find out more about Jamie Stiehm and other Creators Syndicate columnists and cartoonists, please visit Creators.com.