TWENTY ONE

Ryder

Pictures of attractive women were scattered all over my work space. After going over each one, I separated it into two separate piles: yes and no. There was no group that consisted of "maybe" for me.

Either they did or did not resemble what the producer had envisioned for the final product. I attempted to dispel the idea that I wouldn't find the one in here by rolling my shoulders back in an effort to do so. My eyes started to itch as the stunning, symmetrical, dark-eyed women began to run together in a pack. I didn't usually collaborate with artists who were in the middle of their careers and somewhat unknown, but the producer, Julius Lewis, was one of my closest friends.

Andrew, a mutual friend of both of us, came over and sat back in one of my conference chairs before remarking, "It's kind of like Tinder." "Except for the fact that you continue to print garbage." He had one of his ankles crossed over his knee, and at the same time he was browsing through his phone while