I enter a large and scholarly office with tall wooden bookshelves lining opposite walls to my left and right. The door is behind me, still open, and in front of me there is a grand picture window overlooking a collegiate green. The green is scattered with people enjoying the sunny spring afternoon. In front of the window there is a stately wooden desk. The desk is piled with thick volumes and stacks of papers, organized but not too orderly.
She is sitting behind the desk in a tall leather chair. The top three buttons are undone on her crisp white shirt and her blonde hair is pulled back loosely behind her ears. Her eyes do not leave the yellowed pages of the leather-bound book that she is reading. I know she is aware of me, just not ready to acknowledge me yet. I stand silently just inside the door to avoid interrupting her thoughts. My back tenses involuntarily, remembering the last time I interrupted.
Twenty minutes and ten page turns later, she lifts her eyes from the book to meet mine. She thanks me for waiting, as if I had a choice, leans back in the leather chair, and tells me to shut the office door. I open my mouth to respond, which is met with raised eyebrows. I immediately realize my mistake and close my mouth. "You know better than that," she chides. Her arms are folded across her chest. She spends a minute looking me over from afar before allowing her face to relax into a smile, apparently pleased. "Come here," she beckons. I walk toward the desk and around the side to where she is seated. She swivels slightly in her chair to face me.
