Not everything — four inches of open door was four inches of visible room, a slice of it, the angle showing the desk and the chair and the lamp and a portion of the bookshelves behind. His desk, which I knew well by now — the documents and the legal pad and the two laptops and the ordered occupation of a man who worked seriously. The lamp, which was on, which was always on, the warm amber cone of it over the desk.And him.He was reading.Jacket off — it was always off by this hour, the jacket was for the day, for meetings, for the dinner table. The shirt, which I had by now catalogued in several iterations, was dark tonight, charcoal or navy in the lamp light, the sleeves rolled to just below the elbow. He was sitting forward in the chair, not the full forward intensity of deep focus, but the easy forward of someone in the middle of something and comfortable with it, his forearms on the desk, the document in his hands.He was reading.I watched him turn a page.The movement was unhu
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