I can’t bear carrying the loose envelope of photos—feels like everyone is looking at me. Before work, I dodge into a men’s store around the corner from the office. Eyeing a wall of briefcases, I spot one with a double lock. The salesperson rolls his eyes at me when I ask if it’s a good briefcase. He says it’s Chiarugi. He says it’s made with Italian Tuscan leather. He says that they prefer the term attaché. I tell him for 600 bucks I’ll call it a lunchpail if I want. He gets even more pissed when I pay with cash because he has to run next door for change. The Valombrosa security guard nods to me now on my way to the elevators but he still doesn’t answer my good morning. I wedge my new briefcase in the closing elevator doors and they slide back open. A shifty-eyed little man with round glasses stands in the back of the elevator, rising and falling doing nervous calf-raising exercises. Before I swipe my key-card, I notice the button for the 31st floor is lit.
