It sat there between the grapes and the tea, open to page two, waiting for me.

At noon I took my bag up to the third floor and sat down across from Charles at the window.

He had his bologna sandwich on white bread, the wax paper folded flat at the corners like a page in a ledger.

He slid a section of orange toward me without looking up from his book.

“Meetings all morning,” he said.

“You’ve got that look.”