It’s the still frame of the Post TV video in today’s paper. I can’t grab it, so I can’t show it to you here.
In the photo, Cantor has this look on his face like he just had a religious experience. And his wife has got this pained smile. It’s just a precious photo. You have to go see it.
[Found it. Here’s the photo:]
She’s standing there with that pained look on her face, and she’s thinking, “Mm hm. No more parties for me, no more gowns and balls and mixers in the capital rotunda for me. No more ever-so-refined lunch meetings with the women’s club where we sit around and fancy ourselves to be out of the reach of the dirty rabble in the street.”
And then Cantor and his wife graciously take their leave of everyone, and they’re still smiling as Cantor helps his wife into her mink stole, and they wave goodbye to all the reporters, and they walk to the car and get in, and Cantor’s wife still gamely smiles her pained little smile through the car window and waves to the reporters as if they just had a pleasant dinner together and “see you next time,” and the car pulls away and her smile falls off her face like spaghetti falling off a wall, upon which it must have been hurled in a fit of rage. “How the fuck could you lose that election?! What the fuck is wrong with you?! What am I supposed to do now?! How do I look people in the face again?! Huh?! I’ll tell you what, mister, you had better figure out what the fuck you’re going to do to fix this or I’m taking the kids and leaving! I don’t give a fuck what you do! Bomb some station houses for all I care! Isn’t there someone in the FBI you can call?!”