The shine of the boardroom table reminds me of the flat white of canvas. It’s a place with promise, where something can be made that wasn’t before. Money, usually.
The first time I was here I was too busy being pissed at Christopher to appreciate the room. In the half hour that Sutton makes me wait for him, I have the time to study the cherrywood table that matches the walls. Made from the same trees, I think. I have the sudden sense that they were built by hand—by Sutton’s hand. That he sawed and sanded these boards. Put whatever this glossy stuff is on top so a sheet of paper can fly all the way across, no friction, all inertia.
There’s a kind of romance to that idea, that he would have carved this boardroom himself.
He’s angry at me, something I would know even if he hadn’t given me
