It was an old and battered briefcase with protruding tongues of leather. Its hide had known all weathers and rough treatments, enough to scar and mottle it.
The briefcase was shaped and decorated as if it were a biscuit tin. It was a sort of homely orange, the kind even the brightest of petals become in the early evening light.
There was something so amusing to Claire, that she should have the most serious looking briefcase, a pretty polished black, and keep her crustless sandwiches within.
The briefcase in the lawyers hands was a sort of hollow hardback book without contents. It had the battered appearance of something invented a couple of hundred years prior without the necessary legends to give it any meaning.
A rigid briefcase was held in the hands of the up-right man. Together they glided along, the body of the man and the case equally detached from the legs.
The briefcase was a faded red leather. It had seen the London sun so many days in all weathers. Now the handle squeaked and the lock was always open.
Dog-eared and chewed with a puppy's love, the briefcase sat in pride of place upon the otherwise clear desk. Some things are made to last.
The briefcase held the briefest of briefs, the intelligence services were that way. It was instructions made tiny, condensed that the average person would see it as nothing at all.
If Willy Wonka had made a briefcase, this was it. It was the sort of purple that children's dreams are made of and Inka couldn't help but imagine that there was sweet chocolate within.
It was the anti-briefcase I suppose, a sort of celebration of flowers and bees with peace symbols. I imagined that in it were seeds for thousands of plants, perhaps more. It was the way Henry carried it too, with the sort of pride one gets from doing good things.