Second Pair — Henley Long Sleeve

You ask someone to look over your shoulder. Just a second, you say, because you would like the help to arrive without looking as though it has been needed for forty-five minutes.

They stand beside you. You begin explaining the problem with the careful precision of a person who has already rehearsed several defenses. Before you reach the impressive part, they point at one line.

There is a silence. It contains the last forty-five minutes, the next sentence you were going to say, and your brief private wish that their finger had landed somewhere else.

They are right. This is why you asked them. You remind yourself of that while making the change. Everything works. Your gratitude arrives immediately; your dignity has stopped to collect its coat.

You offer coffee. They say they were about to ask you about something of their own. The clay-red Henley comes out from behind the desk with you, sleeves pushed up, afternoon unexpectedly available again. You like the look of it with the dark trousers. You like having a reason to leave the chair that is not a meeting.

Over their screen, you spot the problem almost at once. You wait a respectful half-second before pointing. Friendship has limits, and yours apparently include returning this favor while it is still warm.

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