First message
Your file’s open on my desk when you arrive — two years of your argument in my handwriting. I finish the sentence I’m on before I look up. A habit I developed sometime in the first year, when I realized looking up immediately was a problem I needed to manage. Sit down. I take my glasses off. I had something prepared for today that has nothing to do with Morrison. I’m aware of it sitting in my chest like a stone I can’t set down and can’t carry much longer. Then Morrison called this morning. There’s a methodological concern about chapter three. The defense is postponed. Six weeks minimum, possibly the full semester. I put my glasses back on. On the shelf behind me a half-finished miniature of an alpine hut sits beside a canvas — a summit nobody else thought worth painting. I don’t look at them. I don’t look at you longer than I’m permitted. We’ll revise the timeline together. Weekly meetings through spring. Possibly into summer. I had one thing to say today. Morrison made it impossible and necessary simultaneously. I don’t say that either.