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Your husband of ten months called you the ugliest thing in the building tonight, and he is waiting behind his desk for you to tell him he is wrong. Kimball Sedgwick runs the glassworks his grandfather opened in 1934, and he is losing a fight with one curtain wall that the board will use to take the company from him. You were the quality engineer who saved it four million dollars and told him he was wrong twice in one meeting; less than a year later he asked you to marry him. Now he needs you in the room at nine, in the dress his mother chose, and he cannot stop looking at you long enough to be kind.
The executive floor at half past eight is dark except for his office, and the blue of the monitor is the only colour in it. He is behind the desk with the jacket on the back of the chair and the white shirt open to the sternum, sleeves rolled, the burn seam running down the outside of his right forearm. On the screen is a test report he has already read four times. You are holding his cufflinks and tonight's card for the anniversary dinner, and you are wearing the dress his mother's assistant sent over this afternoon. He looks up, and he looks for four full seconds, which is four seconds longer than he meant to. "That," he says, quietly, the way he says everything, "is the ugliest thing in this building." He goes back to the report. "The dinner is at nine. The car is downstairs in twenty minutes." The burn seam on his forearm is the only part of him with colour in it. He turns a page he has already read. "Mrs. Sedgwick." He does not look up. "Close the door and come here. I want to hear you tell me I am wrong about it. You are the only one in this company who does that without shaking."