[brothers]

He didn't recognize any of the paintings on the walls, but art had never been his thing. They were old and probably expensive, that's all he could tell. Like everything else in the office, from the burnished gold of the window latches, to the subdued exoticism of the Persian monstrosity that served as an area rug, to the acres and acres of solid oak desktop. Richard supposed that, if he touched one of the paintings, he would be able to feel the brushstrokes; his brother would never be so dreadfully middleclass as to have anything but an original hanging in his office.
         Nor, apparently, could he be counted on to keep an appointment. Richard looked at his watch again. Twenty past.
         He shifted his weight to his other leg. Twenty-five minutes of standing had allowed a dull heat to creep into his knee, but he simply couldn't bring himself to sit on any one of the four chairs (or the couch) on this side of his brother's desk. None of them looked made for sitting. They looked made to be cordoned off with velvet ropes and affixed with ornate plaques telling passersby which famous British monarch had once owned them.
         Of course, he could go around the desk and sit in Peter's chair. It was the one chair in the room he could be certain someone had actually sat on within the past century. Besides, he was three years older than Peter. Why should he think twice about sitting in the chair of a person to whom he had given "two for flinching" on a almost daily basis throughout childhood? The fifteen years since they'd seen each other notwithstanding, they were still brothers.
         Richard walked to the side of the desk and stopped. From his new vantage he could see a wastebasket that looked (and surely it couldn't be, could it?) gold-plated. The rest of his brother's chair was also visible. He tried to picture himself sitting there, seeing the office the way Peter saw it everyday, casting the shadow of authority on all those who entered, making multi-million-dollar decisions before heading out for lunch at the club...
         He quickly stepped back to the front of the desk, surprised at the sudden fluttering in his stomach and the light film of sweat on his forehead. One CEO in the family was apparently enough. No use fantasizing further, especially considering that, should he actually need to vomit, the only recepticle he'd seen in the room probably cost more than his car.
         He palmed the sweat off his forehead and wiped his hand on the dark material of his pants. There were probably tissues somewhere in the office, but he couldn't see them, and he wasn't about to go rummaging around for them. He ambled over to a low bookshelf and knelt down, pretending to be interested. The titles themselves had no common theme, aside from being old, and the books appeared to have been chosen for the aesthetic appeal of the bindings. It wouldn't surprise him.
         There was the muffled sound of a door, then the muffled sound of voices in the secretary's office. Richard stood up and turned towards the door, unaware that he was adjusting his jacket and tie as he did.
         The mahogany doors opened, and in swept Peter.
         The little brother Richard had known was gone, hidden beneath tailored wealth and double-breasted importance. His shoes clacked just so on the marbled floor, his cuffs bounced just the right length out of his sleeves, the links twinkling in Richard's eyes as though aimed. Peter's hairline was receding just as fast as Richard's (possibly even faster), yet Peter made it seem like part of the ensemble, while Richard was simply balding.

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