Plaints

One does not, by default, become perfunctory in one's social dealings with others, insignificant. One is blithe and full of mirth; one is expansive and gregariously rubbing at one's hair; one is at one's best at being a polished socialite, not so much a real, classy patrician, neither very much the object of the paparazzi cameramen, but rather, an original, humble, dabbler in society. Having broached one's social contracts, made one's firm shakes, exchanged one's pecks, brewed one's celestial laughter one is, more or less, comfortable proceeding to more serious aspects of the event.

Which fact dislodges one's little calm is that some people, some insignificant others, are licking significant apertures of the few patricians in the affair. One's mind is now contaminated with the thought of that virulent little couple - the candid patrician and the unassuming lickster. One is appalled by the longevity of the couple's gaiety; they are at it when one is performing his favorite prandial act; they are at it when one is playing a game; they are at it, at it, when one is visible irritated and trying to get the patrician's attention to oneself or even perfunctorily egging a conversation, the lickster throwing his hands and feet up in defense, conjuring a third rate argument, and the patrician, wide eyed, bewildered.

Oh, but when the game is over, the kings and the pawns go into the same box.

Patrician goes home, and gets his paltry sleep. Lickster gets drunk, goes home with cake and dirt. One goes home, doing one's thing, getting one's sleep.