Business Man: 7

In a meeting. Taking the minutes. I’m writing these words instead of “Mr. Firewell inquires about a new lunch hour directive,” or “Ms. Claire shows her report for monthly profit – what’s that yellow stain on her sleeve?”, or “Bob chews his gum like a mad cow”. We’re sitting in the boardroom, which rests at the northwest corner of the building. Glass circumferences us, from floor to ceiling, and we have a broad view of the domain about us, the structures of power jutting up from the ground like quills, at their very tops antennae, syringes, pricking the sky with red and white winks. It is overcast. I hope for rain. Cathy smiles at me, she has told a joke, chuckles trickle out politely. She turns back to the overhead, her hair black silk swinging. Outside it is raining. I see the drops beginning to collect on the glass, peppering crystals. My daughter loves the rain. She’s running to the window right now, her finger touching the glass, her nose pressed up to the pane, she’s asking if she can go outside. The sitter concedes, and she puts on that pink outfit – pink boots, pink raincoat, pink umbrella. She’ll decide not to take the umbrella, and she’ll drink the sky with a tiny outstretched tongue, levelling her gaze once in a while to look at me and laugh. Look at the sitter and laugh. Chuckles offer themselves politely again, Cathy has told another joke, profits are up, the meeting is over, and the minutes, the fast-moving, slipping minutes are safely locked inside my laptop.