Promethean Logophile

My stomach churned waiting for the lawyer, Ronald Eggbald, who was already fifteen minutes late to our afternoon appointment. The office reaked of antacid as I popped a Tums into my mouth. I wondered if Eggbald used Tums or some other brand. What would he do if I lighted the joint hiding in my shirt pocket?

Brushing back fine black hair that always fell across my eyes, I couldn’t help noticing and reaching for the cold metal picture frame. It clattered to the floor when the office door opened behind me. Ronald Eggbald stood with the door open to secretaries typing in the other room. I could see him ponder the fallen picture, my torn worn blue jeans, and striped western shirt with pearl snaps. Crossing to his desk, he sat, and placed suit covered elbows on the tabletop in front of him. His fingers formed a triangle at his mouth. A large diamond gold ring indicated that he was a married man. I picked up the frame. It held a middle-aged woman who smiled softly. I placed the picture near where it had sat before on Eggbald’s burled maple desk.