The footrest is the first thing I notice.
Not right away. I pull out the chair, sit down, reach for my laptop and my pencil and the notes I'd left spread across the desk, go through all the motions of settling in before something registers as different about the space under the desk.
I look down.
A footrest. Low, padded, positioned at an angle that fits exactly how I sit when I'm working through long stretches.
Not shoved somewhere general, not left against the wall. Placed deliberately, adjusted to a height that required someone paying attention to where my feet actually land when I stop thinking about them.
I look at it for a moment.
Then I pull my feet onto it and open my files.
I don't follow the thought any further than that.
It's a footrest, someone put it there, my feet are more comfortable than they were yesterday.
