Texting

It's murder on the leather but he does it anyway.  Jamming the topline like they were a pair of cheap sneakers, he slips off his dress shoes and pushes them away.  The sigh of relief is inaudible.  His feet have mostly recovered from the effects of the frostbite but they still don't feel comfortable while confined.  So he's taken to padding around in his socks while behind closed doors in his office.  It's the first time he's done it at the conference table.  The enormous round of mahogany is hiding the fact he's shed a layer.  

He drops his head back against the chair and closes his eyes, looking very much like he's tuning out, fulfilling the widely held expectations of the others around him.  The truth is he's already read their reports.  In depth.  

His cell phone vibrates in the inside pocket of his suit jacket and he pulls it out lazily, lowering it and his gaze to his lap.  Like his feet, the screen is now obscured by the tabletop.