o’clock,” I tell him. “I will let him know. Though you’re quite early.” “How early?” I ask. He smiles and motions to the other side of the room. There’s a leather sofa and an armchair that looks plucked from the court of some mythic kingdom, hewn in radiant golden upholstery so dazzling they make the rest of the space seem utterly tasteless in comparison. “You may have a seat,” he says. I go over to the exquisite chair and sit. It’s not remarkably comfortable. The old man resumes his typing and does not look at me again. My eyes search for a clock. I find none. I make friends with the artwork while I wait. A portrait of George Washington and I are quickly drawn to one another, exchanging glances every few minutes, silently agreeing that the painting of the farm with the purple silo and endless brassy wheat fields should get over itself. Eventually, George tires of me. I take up with Marie Antoinette, then Elizabeth, Galileo, even Mona. In time, they fade, their faces swallowed and replaced and swallowed again. I see people I don’t recognize. I see places I’ve never been. They are vaguely familiar. Most are gone before I get a good look. A door opens beside me. A barefoot man in a white undershirt and cream-colored khakis steps out. I give him my best smile. He doesn’t look at me right away. When he does, he beams back. “You’re my three o’clock?” I stop smiling. “That’s me.” I start to stand up out of the chair but cannot commit entirely. “Right this way.” He motions with his arm through the doorway. I finish leaving the chair and follow him. Immediately we’re descending a staircase. A long staircase. I cannot see the bottom. While we climb down, I hand the man the tattered paper in my hand. He reads it aloud to me, every syllable. I just listen. “This seems just about right,” he says when he’s finished. He shakes his
97