Barstone picks up his laptop and heads out the door. "See you all. Gotta get back to work."
And so life at the coffee shop falls into its everyday rhythm. Gramma McBitty is surfing the web with two of her grandchildren.
A line has formed at the counter.
Suddenly Mitzi finds herself face to face with Cindersara, who orders a double latte and some carbs. The legend in person! Mitzi nearly spills the hot java all over her famous customer.
Of course, wherever Cindersara is to be found, the cameras and mikes are not far away, and so the governor is soon distracted.
Like a moth to the flame, she turns to the blinking LEDs. Questions fall like manna from Heaven. "Cindersara, do you have any comments about the campaign trail?"
She is prepared for this question. "Well, I can tell you that I'm wearing my own cheap second-hand clothes, like the proud hard-working pro-American that I am. Not a Marcus Noman stitch on me. All those expensive clothes have gone right back to the stores, except a few that we donated to charity out of the goodness of the campaign benefactors' hearts. You might watch your local thrift shop in case they show up there." 
"So what was it like to wear all those expensive clothes?"
"Well, I don't miss the itching, if that's what you mean. It's very irritating to have to wear the sales tags on the inside while you're giving a speech."
"You've had a lot of critical media coverage. Do you feel that you were treated fairly during the campaign?"
"Oh, my goodness, not at all. If it wasn't for the elite media -- and President Shrub, of course -- and maybe the Guy Who's Too Busy to Look at His Prayers, we'd have won this election. No doubt about it."
Mitzi keeps an ear cocked to the interview as she works.
She's not the only one listening carefully.
Gramma McBitty is taking it all down as fast as she can type. Unbeknownst to everyone--even her grandchildren enjoying a magazine across the table from her--Gramma McBitty is a secret blogger. Her granny blog is widely followed. She is well-known for dishing up the dirt on all local persons of note.
"Governor, some say Johnny Main lost the election because of you." 
"Impossible. I'm sweet and adorable and good Americans love me. No, it was that sexist media. Did they ask Barrocky about his hairspray, or his spray-on tan? I think not. I can't believe how sexist they are down in the lower 46."
"48, Governor. 49 if you count that island state."
"Whatever. At least in Laska men and women are treated equally. The rest of the country could learn a lesson from us up here. You boys don't treat me different just because I'm a woman, do you?"
"Never, Governor baby."
"He-he-he."
Gramma McBitty has been covertly following Cindersara's escapades for some time and faithfully reporting on them.
...or a camera.
"Well, this is fun, although I suppose someone will find a reason to criticize it."
"Speaking of criticism, would you like to take this opportunity to clear up some allegations against you, such as that you didn't know Africa was a continent? Or untrue things you claim were said by the evil media?"
"No, thanks. Can you come home with me? I just really like microphones and cameras for some reason, especially when they're pointed at me."
One thing is for certain. After her run on the presidential ticket, no one will ever see Cindersrara the same again. She has come back with a tattoo planted on her forehead, the magical kind that says something different to everyone who looks upon it.
In any case, Cindersara has left a recent lasting impression upon all of Plasticopia.
Happy Thanksgiving.
