To say that Mr Samuels was discombobulated by this encounter would be false. He stored it away in his mind for future clarification. I’d like to think of the mind of Mr Samuels as a sphere, perfect in its way yet not so perfect as to not allow the occasional addition, through whatever means one might imagine. But I can’t. No, the sphere of mind, or mind as sphere, I don’t know, will not do justice to the man.
So let us think of his mind as an office, albeit a well-run office, overseen by some faceless manager who has a cubicle all to themselves. Themselves! Honestly! I don’t know; man, woman, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that this person is entombed in a glass-walled cubicle from nine-to-five. From there, the entire office is open to view, with a little twisting, admittedly, or a l
