The Presidential Ball

It was your typically dignified high-society political function. She detested every second. Hours and hours of countless greetings, inane conversation, thinly veiled appeals for favours and downright bribery. This was unfortunately the single most important social event on the president’s social calendar, and thus she and her husband were expected to attend. She grimaced as she passed her husband; he loved this kind of thing. A social butterfly at these parties that were about as entertaining as watching paint dry. He would mingle with a group of dignitaries, diplomats and politicians and then excuse himself and move onto the next group. The pattern would repeat endlessly.

Of course, she hid her discontent so well that you would never guess that she wasn’t enjoying herself. She was dressed immaculately in clothing that had cost a good deal more than most people earn in a month, and swept around the room with an open yet regal air. The practised way she did so, betrayed her experience in such menial social affairs. Despite her dislike of such things, she was a true expert in making sure everybody was entertained and everything was organised perfectly, thus ensuring that the party ran like clockwork. It simply would not do for the President’s Ball to be in shambles. Public image was far too important to squander away with poor preparation.

She checked her watch; …plenty of time left. A man in a tailored suit whose demeanour exuded pompousness introduced himself to her. She proceeded to do a good job of looking interested and actively participating in the conversation whilst listening to Whitney Houston hits in her head. Apparently the man was some sort of business man. distracted, she realised she had missed one of the businessman’s questions, especially judging by the way he was looking at her expectantly.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”

Checking her watch again, she was just as disappointed as last time. Time flies when you are entertained, but boredom drags it down to a slow crawl that would easily be outstripped by passing snails. She excused herself from the conversation so she could continue her rounds, attempting to get some of the more anti-social guests involved instead of looking like they wouldn’t want to be there (Which was exactly how she felt at the time.) and hustling the servants to make sure wine and delicacies were circulating the room in plentiful amounts. She ended up being a bit harsh with the servants, and they didn’t seem to appreciate it. She could care less, their hefty paycheques made up for any potential emotional damage.

Taking a wine glass, she called for the attention of the room. She then proceeded to make a toast that was suitably well-received, especially from her husband. He seemed glad that he doesn’t have to stop talking to the rich and powerful of American society to make it himself. After the toast, she decided to stop trying to organise things and just assimilate into the party. She’d done everything she could to make it a good party, and frankly she was just tired. Eventually, guests started to excuse themselves and make their departure. She breathed a sigh of relief. More and more guests left the party, until it was just her, her husband and a various cleaners working like they were paid highly to do so (which, of course, they were). Her husband walked over to her.

“Enjoy the party?”

“You know I hate this sort of thing.”

They stopped their conversation as someone who was obviously a government agent of some sort walked up to them. What’s the point of being Secret Service when you are wearing shades at night, in-doors? It would be slightly less obvious to have a paper sign on their back saying ‘SS.’ He cleared his throat to speak.

“Madam President. We have a problem.”