I've been completely mesmerized by this image of Trump guiding Macron along like an adorable little pup on a leash.
The self-anointed "commander" of the alleged "free" planet snatched the French leader's hand and navigated him past the colonnades as though he were a pint-sized brother he'd been assigned to shield from oncoming traffic, and I genuinely have a mountain of questions. I appreciate you tapping me; my questions run as follows: How? To what end? Who is footing the bill for my eyeball sanitization? And when does the next rocket to Saturn depart?
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The perspective in this image seems warped, and yet it depicts actual reality, so there's some allegory to chew on or whatever. How is Trump so enormous and Macron so tiny? How did I wind up inhabiting this reality? What compels the tides to shift? What forces the leaves to fall in spring?
I peer at this image and feel as though I'm examining a still from a trippy Donnie Darko knockoff. My body is clocked in at the office, yet my mind feels like it might be hallucinating, so somebody ought to page human resources, if you would.
Eager for eternal restlessness? Observe Macron somehow wrapping his entire hand around Trump's index finger.
LUDOVIC MARIN/AFP/Getty Images
Greetings, HR? Yours truly once more. I need to clock out for the day because I am cosmically uneasy.
Honestly, what sequence of events triggered this finger-snatching episode. Is this international diplomacy? Why was I never briefed that Model U.N. contained this much cringeworthy palm-clutching? I absolutely would have paid closer attention.
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Below is an additional snapshot of the duo together:
I'm only joking. My deepest apologies to absolutely every individual implicated. For all of it.
Moments later in their summit, Trump considerately flicked some lint or flakes off of Emmanuel Macron's blazer with a tender brush of his freshly-freed index finger.
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What a magnificent showcase of the techniques through which human beings actually engage with one another. How charming, how nurturing, how strange. I relish the way Emmanuel Macron gazes up at Trump with gratitude. What might it feel like to dwell inside Macron's (arguably flaky) spotlight. The look of reverence is practically too innocent.
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Thanks for looking after my noggin and shoulders.
Listen, I hate to subject you to this, but if I was forced to witness it, you had to be exposed to it as well. Quite a divergent nonverbal tale from last week's Macron-Le Bae rendezvous at the snack spread, wouldn't you agree? Quelle catastrophe, right?
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What an amuse bouche of Bae. Sadly, it has been swapped out for an entree of hard pass. That familiar universe has evaporated. What lingers is peculiar palm-holding and finger-hooking. Hello HR? Better extend my absence through the rest of the week, just to be safe.
Follow R. Eric Thomas on Twitter.
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