Go to the den

I started walking down the hallway to Bill’s den. I entered without knocking and took in my surroundings. Even in the waking world it had a timeless quality about it. The walls were lined with bookshelves and the decor was all done in dark hardwoods and leather. Two high backed armchairs stood facing the fireplace in which a stack of logs burned. They cast a warm glow which sent shadows dancing around the room. Their warmth was comforting rather than stifling.

In one chair sat the man himself. I could only see one arm, clothed in a fine white dress shirt from my place by the door. In his hand was a tumbler of amber liquid which caught the firelight. He swirled it for a moment and then brought it up and out of sight for a slow, ponderous sip. It felt as if we were alone in the world. The rest of the house was quiet.

Even with the shutters and curtains drawn on the one large window I knew that it had become night outside. A cold, perhaps even snowy midnight; a silent world in which no sound was made except the crackling of the flames and the clink of the ice in his glass. It was a fine night for good drinks and better company. The kind of night that lends itself to contemplation, to pondering. To serious questions and honest answers.

I conjured him up in this state for a reason, surely. But did I have a specific question to put before him?