Election Face

That’s us as the returns rolled in, all dressed for a funeral, and headed out for an end-of-the-world dinner and a bottle of wine. Dark red wine, darker than blood. Blood, wine, smoke, carnage. The orcs are inside the city walls.

But then we got to the restaurant, where our perpetually cheerful hostess Svetlana leaned in and reminded us in her Boris-and-Natasha accent that we can’t influence the high politics. Never could, not anywhere. Still or sparkling?

The lady behind us was wearing a fascinator, maybe getting an extra day’s use out of her Melbourne Cup accessories. Hard not to smile at that.

And so we glumly ate the delicious chicken livers and the rigatoni with the rich red sauce and drank the wine and then since it was the end of the world we ordered a ridiculous foo-foo dessert.

It did help, at least a little.