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The Card in His Pocket
Daniel wanted one word before he left Tokyo: yes. The terms were already in the email. His flight was the next evening, and the signature page sat in a folder under his arm, with a blank line and no name yet sure enough to write. He had come to hear someone senior say that the contract could be signed.
Four people stood when he entered. The room was plain: a long table, cups of tea, a window over other windows. The woman nearest the door offered her card with both hands, the print turned toward him. He took it in one hand, saw a surname he was not ready to pronounce, and slipped the card into his jacket while he was still thanking her for the meeting. Her smile did not move. Her eyes went to the pocket, and stayed there until he noticed.