I stand in the alleyway, watching Danvers through the greasy little window of his office.
You learn everything about a person when they think they’re alone.
I watch Danvers take a tin of nuts out of his drawer, open them, and eat a few handfuls, wiping his salty palm on the leg of his jeans. He pushes the nuts away as if he’s not going to eat anymore. But a few minutes later, he takes another handful. Then, in a burst of motivation, he puts the lid back on the tin and encloses the tin within the drawer. That lasts even less time before he opens the drawer and takes another handful.
After a while, Danvers’s receptionist comes into his office. She’s already wearing her coat and carrying her purse, eager to leave before the weather worsens.
Danvers steps between her and the doorway, blocking her path with his soft-shouldered body, ignoring several hesitant steps in his direction as she hints at him to release her.
His chatting stretches out agonizingly slow. I see the girl touch the phone in her pocket several times, probably feeling the vibration of text messages from friends who might be waiting for her at some nearby cafe or restaurant.
Finally, he lets her go. I expect him to follow her out—the receptionist was the last person left in the office besides Danvers himself.
Instead, he stands there awkwardly, before sinking into his chair once more.
Frustrated by whatever attention he failed to drain from the receptionist, he pours the remaining nuts directly into his mouth and flings the tin at the wastepaper basket in the corner, missing it by two feet. I see him mouth the word fuck, though he doesn’t bother to pick up the tin.
He scrolls through Facebook for a while. Though he’s facing the window with his computer screen turned away from me, I can see its reflection on his glasses. He opens a word doc, types a few sentences, then closes the document again. Apparently he exhausted all his creative energy slandering me this morning.
At long last, Danvers shuts off his computer, retrieving his coat from a hook on the wall. I’m pleased to see he neglected to bring his umbrella.
Danvers shuts off the last of the office lights, locking the door behind him.
I step out of the alleyway, avoiding the camera perched on the northwest corner of the squat brick building.
Once my umbrella is open, I’m nothing but a tall, dark stalk beneath its black canopy.
I pretend to hustle along the sidewalk, head down, lost in thought, until Danvers and I brush shoulders.
“Carl,” I say in mock surprise. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Cole,” Danvers replies, a little nervous. He’s wondering if I read his article—if I’m here to harangue him.
“Is that the Siren office?” I say, as if I didn’t know.
“That’s right,” he says, stiff and wary.
“My studio’s right over there.” I gesture in the direction of Fulton, where as Danvers well knows, the rent is triple what the Siren probably pays.
“Is it?” Danvers says vaguely, looking the other way toward Balboa where he takes the streetcar back to his condo.
The rain is falling harder now, plastering his thinning hair against his skull, bringing out the rat-like quality of his protuberant nose and underbite.
“Share my umbrella,” I say as if I only just noticed him getting soaked.
I reorient the canopy so it covers us both.
“Thanks,” Danvers says grudgingly.
And then, because it’s human nature to seek conciliation, to give a favor for a favor, Danvers says, “No hard feelings about the showcase I hope. It was stiff competition.”
“I’m not one for grudges,” I reply.
He squints at me through his foggy glasses. I’m sure he’s wondering if I saw the review. Perhaps even wishing that he hadn’t written it, because at the end of the day, Carl Danvers has a desperate need to be liked. It was my public mockery that first spurred his rage against me. At any time, I could have disarmed him with a compliment. If I could bring myself to lie.
There’s nothing I admire in Danvers.
In fact, I’ve never admired anyone.
“I think you’ll find my current project much more absorbing,” I tell Danvers. And then, as if I just thought of it, “Would you like to see it? It’s still in progress, but it would get us out of the rain. I’ve got tea as well.”
Danvers is suspicious at this sudden offering of an olive branch. He studies my face, which I’ve carefully arranged to appear casual and almost distracted—as if I’m pulled back to my studio, inviting him along as an afterthought.