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Sunday, February 19, 2017

That Swedish Incident

The light from outside fell like a corpse across the floor, where Trump sat. The light was dense and yellow and external.

"Melania," Trump said. "Flip on the lights."

Trump meant the overhead lights, but Melania turned on the flashlight to her phone and held it up.

"The light switch," Trump said. "Find the--"

"All lights are gone," Melania said.

Trump sighed. "We live in a house with more rooms than our penthouse. Why are there no light switches?"

"Maybe because it was built before electricity?" Melania smiled. She was standing against one wall of the Blue Room, posing as if Avedon were about to photograph her, with her phone extended at such a fashionable angle that light became impractical.  Which was unfortunate, as Avedon understood light.

Trump pulled a piece of paper up to his eyes and squinted. There was silence. The silence was as dense as the dead external light. Melania held her pose, and her phone's light fell across her shoes, but ventured no further.

"I've got to get this done," Trump growled. "I can't do it without decent light." He gestured up to the ceiling, where crystal chandeliers dangled like promises. "Those lights gotta work, Mel. There must be a switch somewhere."

Melania sighed. Her body released the pose. "I don't know," she said. "I've asked the staff. They are to not understand where the light switches are either."

Trump, crosslegged, shifted his expansive ass so that he could look at his wife. In doing so, he knocked over a pile of wooden sticks. The sound ripped through the silent house, and attracted no attention.

"Goddammit, Mel," Trump exclaimed. "Look what you made me do!"

Melania dropped her phone--which continued to shine--and put on her best apology face, which wasn't helpful in the dark Blue Room. "Oh, Donnie. I'm so sorry. Let me help--"

"I don't need help. I need light."

Bits of a futon were spread out before him like what would become Frankenstein's Monster. He only needed to assemble the pieces into a whole. The absence of true light made Trump angry. Melania sensed his anger.

"Donnie. Look. I can ask the help to--"

"I don't want the help." He lifted an allen wrench up to his temple.

"But they may know where the light switches are! Donnnnie." Melania spread her lips in a way she knew was beneficial to humanity.

"These lights are the worst lights. Horrible lights. I will not deal with these lights. I will assemble this futon without any lights." Trump removed the allen wrench from his temple and stabbed it in the general direction of fake wood, and missed.

Some days later, Michael Flynn wandered into the Blue Room. Light no longer fell thickly like a corpse--it flowed into the room like water. At midday, there was nothing to fear and nothing to dislike. It was a beautiful room and Flynn took a seat on a newly-installed sofa.

Flynn took a moment--he consumed the new atmosphere as one would consume a new country. The Blue Room: where Grover Cleveland married, where he could view the south lawn, where he...

In the dwindling light, Flynn caught a gleam shining out of the shag carpet. He bent over and reached out.

Just before the futon collapsed, Flynn asked, "Is this a missing screw?"

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