He is old and regal, his thick beard and wisps of his hair bright silver, his back straight. He brags and muses and mentions his several PhD degrees, his extensive experience and hobbies, and dresses content in stories and jokes about wife and her fur coats. He's theorizing again; he is relaxed and kind and does not mention the budget and mentions "the business" with a benevolent condescension - and the audience understands that once again all is, if not well, then at least back to the usual at our company.
We all come to hear him, we all come to display out respect - to hope that when it's our turn to speak he will listen in turn.
He is wearing a dark olive shirt; it seems to throw a yellow sheen under direct light. It looks like he's wearing the moss of a forest. Did he get it on his own accord, or was it picked out for him by his wife? Did they shop together when her eye fell on it, and did she ask him to try it on, and did she smooth it out on his chest, on his shoulders? Does she remember their years together when she still cares for him, his smiling eyes drawing the network of laugh lines on his face?

How many ironed shirts on the shoulders of men mean the love of a wife?

All I can really think about as he gestures and speaks is what kind of a grandfather he must be.