Member-only story
Hank Henderson followed the waiter to a table near the fireplace of the Westin Hotel lounge. “I’m waiting for a friend,” he said, sliding his coat over the back of the honey wood chair and, smiling into the young fellow’s face, “I will take a Glenfiddich.” Leaning into the padded seat, he paired with the flickering electric fire, visualizing his diaphragm descending. He favored the visual of an old-timey brass, mahogany, and glass elevator, like the one in his grandfather’s office building from childhood.
“Hank!” Jay Parse, a tall, smooth-walking man in his middle forties, approached with an extended hand. They shared palm-to-palm contact, opening the energy field to light and warmth.
“You’re looking good,” Hank observed, appreciating Jay’s casual style: blue sweater, an opened white collar, grey slacks, and subdued, sporty trainers. “How’s the big life treating you?”
Jay laughed. “It’s happening. We’re starting our move to Dexter Station. You have to come to see the space!” Jay said, leaning into the padded stool, one arm slung over the back. “It’s the same design as Menlo Park. Wide, open spaces, polished plywood floors, and painted cement walls, with conference rooms that are more playground than corporate stiff, and the food in the cafeteria is out of this world. I never want to leave! How about you? How’s FLASH?”
