73 The loving cup and smooth silver surface

Her Honor the Mayor of San Anselmo polished the Trophy of Virtue in a frankly erotic way. But, she rationalized, it got the job done very well.
“So shiny!” she marveled. “‘You light up my life, you give me hope, to carry on! You light up my day! . . .'” She lifted the ballad by an ache in her voice which portended total decompensation. Her role as a civic leader was her fortress. Dry yet mighty the late nights were at City Hall, in the chair, gavel in grip, as she dominated the Town Council instead of the hoochie coochie having a handle on her.
“So smoooo-hoooo-hoooo-hoooo-weeeee! . . . smooth!” she gasped.
Her Administrative Assistant didn’t bother to listen through the keyhole anymore. No leverage obtained where knowledge was common. But she wondered how much longer it would be before Her Honor became a hundred percent unglued. Sublimation such as this, requiring a mop, would not fly in the City of Danville, whose Job Opportunities site she often perused.
“Hhecch!” she hacked. The thought of driving on East Bay streets and freeways made her sullen.
These hicks in the daub between Ross and Fairfax needed to believe they were sophisticates, and in a constrained way overlooked the mayor’s weird ceremoniousness on city time. The wits at a big table in the Plip Plop Coffe Shop had actually called it a “peccadillo.” That sanded her ears like static.
“Shall a miracle come to pass, parting the Mayor from our silver totem?”
She’d begun to talk like this to herself, suffering from all the operatic hours between 10:00 and 11:00 Monday through Friday over, under, and through the portal to the inner sanctum. She glanced at the office clock, noting the mayor had segued to “How Great Thou Art.”
In the Machiavellian days of Benvenuto Cellini, who’d crafted the medallion entrusted to the Trophy of Virtue, the Administrative Assistant might have reasoned taking the Mayor out, when she had her on her knees.

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