Social

Humans are a social species, the men in white coats, whom we have been taught to trust, persuade us. Mr. President mills about, run-of-the-mill if you will, running the mill of the party, the gathering. The women, like bushels in their bustles, bustle about, foofing their ruffles as trivialities are exchanged, like bites of cake that no one wants to admit are too small. Mrs. First Lady extinguishes the fire with a fire extinguisher of perfume, atomized droplets settling on chiffon like the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. The men, neatly assembled like compact cars fresh off the assembly line, assemble the women, corralling them as a herd, unleashing the lasso when one of them makes herself heard.