His long body infantilizes the table top. The combination of his leather briefcase, formal pique polo shirt and casual faded jeans make a statement: “I am professional, but today is Sunday and I am doing my weekend work in Carol’s Hungry Mind Café.” A pot of tea and his blackberry telephone clink when he grazes his white hand across a stack of papers to turn the page.
Back straight and assertive, he has earned his confidence and his white hair from years of managing money. His legs, unselfconscious and alert, are hooked around the base of the chair. A serious crinkle furrows into his forehead while he leans back, pauses to think and readjusts his tortoise-rimmed glasses.
I can smell his English Breakfast tea with sugar from here. He does not realize that while he reads his papers in an inconspicuous café and exudes his modest professionalism, he is keeping himself in the spotlight by protecting me from the angular rays of late sunshine streaming directly towards my face. The golden bars instead ricochet off of his white crew cut, reflecting a yellow halo in the still air and sparkling dust.