“No. Neither of those.” Donald Trump says, as he brushes aside Melania’s tenth suggestion, and Ivanka’s fourteenth. “They’re both too dark. I don’t want people thinking this is a funeral or something. Ripe blueberry maybe? How about buttermilk? What have we got in those? I think it’ll help if I remind people of a dessert.” Ivanka rolls her eyes, but Melania has already disappeared into aisle fourteen of the presidential wardrobe. The fraught process, with the sub-consciously projected hopes of the free world riding on its outcome, ticks into hour two.
“Maybe I won’t wear a tie,” Donald suddenly emits, sounding as exasperated as the three out of four adult Americans who didn’t vote for him are feeling today. “Maybe I’ll just go open collar. That’ll show them.” Ivanka asks for clarification on who it will show what.
“The people who wear ties. That I won’t wear one. That I am above ties now. I have moved into meta-tie. I am like Jonathan Livingstone Tie. Speed of light.” Donald makes a rapid hand motion and a swooshing sound. Everyone is quiet. In the corner of the large suite an intern wonders to another intern if the guy who makes the emperor’s clothes is still around. She is fired immediately, but not before the Don latches on. “What guy? I didn’t know there was an emperor-clothes making guy. Putin’s tailor? Get him in here. Pronto. The inauguration is in two hours. I hope he works fast.”