John's shirts are a puzzle.
Striped, checked, plaid, lines run in orderly routes around him, up and down him.
They're old-fashioned. Nearly stodgy. Soft cotton button-ups, ironed and tucked, buttoned very neatly, nearly to the top.
They don't fit him. Literally. Figuratively.
Today's shirt is checked, oatmeal, brick; dark buttons and tidy collar and closed cuffs.
Familiar. Fatherly. Approachable. Comforting.
And John is those things; but he is not only those things.
Underneath he is other.
Scars and strength. Heat and heart.
He is saying something very reasonable. He sits on the edge of the sofa, leafing through the newspapers on the coffee table. Sunlight wraps around his right side as though drawn to him. He is half shadow, half light.