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Summary
She snakes her hand between them, high instead of low, wrapping it around his bowtie. Starts to pull. And it’s this that snaps him out of it.
Because Josh Lyman isn’t a press secretary and he isn’t a communications director and he isn’t Sam or Toby and he sure as hell isn’t Will, but he’s spent enough time around enough writers to appreciate the art of analogy (at the end of the night you wanna be able to pull it open like tony bennett), to recognize symmetry (donna? my tie’s falling apart), to understand that codas don’t exist merely in cello suites or stump speeches; that life makes space for sartorial bookends, too.
Like bowties being tied, then untied.