Claire and Francis. Two nice names. Not two nice people. Their marriage is a vow: to succeed. Failure is not an option, as they say. I am not sure yet how far they would go. He might go farther than she does, that is so far the impression. But then again, this might be an illusion. Claire to Francis, when he comes home in the morning, having spent the night with another woman: The reporter? He is cool and calm, I can end it, if you want, he says – but she is fine with it, as long as the reporter can be useful. She walks away with all the grace that a body of will and discipline can have. And House of Cards IS about bodies. Claire, the beautiful Robin Wright, erect, swaying, moving like hot air. Francis, the chunky Kevin Spacey, broad, shere force, body politics. He will use anybody. She might do the same. But love, what is love in this equation? Claire seems to have one love, the photographer whom she does not sleep with one night, after she has come to his room and he has ordered two bottles of red wine. It was a mistake, she says. There are no mistakes, the photographer says. So he sleeps with the reporter, she does not sleep with the photographer. He texts her. She talks one hour on the phone and in the bath tub. We will see what is more dangerous, cunning, true. I am still only at episode 8.