His yellow-grey ash wood door, in its infinite... door-ness… is imprinted with good old Book Antiqua below a dapper, frosted pane of smartly-dimpled glass. The typeset, on a polished bronze nameplate with Victorian edges, reads:
Georgie M. Plombkins
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“Mister Plombkins, Sir.” Nostalgia Prydonia Anno, the secretary, calls, reaching and balling a fist above the knob to knock.
Her rap tap-taps at the corner of the door.
Her knuckles graze across the old hard wood, gracing the fine shellac with another sequence of raps.
“I’m coming in, Sir,” she calls again, pressing her open hand against the glass and a corner of the wood frame.
The ash door jars itself quietly awake, then slips back, revealing a middlingly dark room half-wrapped in dim sunlight that crackles evenly about, like the glint of crisp cellophane. But the gleam of dusk from out the architect’s office-style floor to ceiling window does nothing to illuminate the cause of her frustration’s whereabouts.
“Mister Plombkins?” Nostalgia rounds on the small desk in one corner, noting that the out of place waste paper bin and a toppled shelf aren’t convenient enough to mask the partial shadow of a naked foot.
“You had better not be staring at that ring again, sir. You should be sleeping now, not playing with toys!” She edges up to the desk, pretends to dance her fingers across the deep corners of the slightly tilted writing surface with its glass cover and its tiny apothecary drawers on either side.
Her almond-colored eyes slide around the room, changing subtly from tan to grey to lavender as she considers the unmoving nature of the pedumbra.