©2011 by Michael C. Boxall
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What obscenity does the Candidate hiss in the direction of his assistant a few dumb-struck moments after reading the tweet? Does a muscle start to twitch in the Candidate’s smoothly-shaven, Ungaro-scented cheek? Does the Candidate feel a rush of panic? Does the assistant mutter the words “shit storm” to the other assistants when he goes back into the beige-painted office the three assistants share with a dusty rubber plant? Has the older female assistant ever been told that when she purses her lips she looks as if she is about to kiss a fish?
Who owns the two offices? Did the last occupant leave of his own accord?
Did the Candidate’s candor in conversation with the nominating committee impress them as much as his connections, candor that extended to confession of a youthful flirtation with illicit substances, folly now deeply regretted, lesson learned? Was the Candidate’s candor complete? Did the Candidate himself remember everything that might have caused the nominating committee to exchange glances and jot notes on their yellow legal pads?