David cracked his knuckles. The meeting had gone well. Every meeting had save for that debacle back in July. He and Glazer had shared a few text exchanges after that, all polite and professional despite minor inclinations to the contrary, and finally in August the two of them had met for the first real time.

David had brought his portfolio with him at Glazer's request. Surprisingly, Glazer had been interested. David had been down this path many times. He had taken meeting after meeting, fresh out of college when there had still been some interest and a few favors left to call in. Most of the time the soft pleasantries were exchanged and the latest contact would courteously flip through a few pages of his work, but typically there had been no real intention to follow through and help David out. The subjectivity of art meant he was lucky to find someone that valued his work, and even then he was luckier still to catch them on a day when they hadn't been stuck in traffic, spilled their coffee, or otherwise had their day run afoul, ruining their mood and shattering his chances of catching their attention.

He had expected his meeting with Glazer might follow this familiar course. To his surprise, especially after their first failed attempt to meet, the encounter had proven anything but normal.

They had met at the same diner where he had originally waited for Glazer. Arriving early and finding no sign of him, David had assumed a repeat of that previous failure. Instead, Kris Glazer showed up right on time – to the minute.

What's more, he did not saunter in wearing an expensive suit or some hipster get up, but arrived dressed in tennis shoes, a nice pair of jeans, and a track jacket over a simple polo shirt. A polo shirt, of all things.

David had always imagined him dressed lavishly in outfits that shouted out his status as a near God. Instead, he was one whistle short of a junior league soccer coach.

"David Li?"

"Yes," David had said, taking his hand.

Glazer had given him a firm handshake, then taken a seat.

"Sorry it took so long. I'm glad we can finally meet."

He had actually apologized. David's image of the slick-haired schmooze God dissipated immediately.

"It's a pleasure," David replied.

And it really had been. That meeting and every meeting thereafter had been a pleasure, a miracle pulling him up from the nothing that he had felt himself becoming. Kris Glazer had been heaven sent.

***

So it was that after nearly two months of occasional meetings, David now waited in the same old diner, happier than he had been in years, while Kris Glazer washed up in the restroom. Each meeting had come with advice and a kind offer to examine David's work. They had spoken technique and marketing and how David might get some attention on his art. They had spoken about the struggle of getting that first break, the biases built into the system, and the joy that came with that first success. They had spoken about the art of painting, the business of getting seen, and the craft of making a sale. David had mined about as much advice and feedback as he could from Kris Glazer, but today Glazer had come to him with an opportunity.

For the first time in nearly five years, David might have a chance to really be seen. He sipped from his water and glanced down to his phone. 3:18 pm.

Glazer had arrived at 2 pm. Again on the dot. He had a punctuality about him that was characteristically un-L.A. No one in Los Angeles showed up on time. You arrived early or late, but the very impossibility of predicting traffic precluded ever being precisely on schedule. In the brief time that David had known him, he frequently found himself wondering if Glazer arrived everywhere early and then just waited, biding each minute until he could make that precisely punctual entrance. The absurdity of it made that first failed meeting stand out: an anomaly that David could not explain nor in any way rectify with his interpretation of the man that he had come to know.

Glazer plopped down into his seat. Plopped. He moved with a complete lack of grace or pretense, no effort to impress, no attempt at elegance. Glazer just was.

"So, where was I?"

"The gallery."

"That's right. The Arts District down by Little Tokyo? I assume you're familiar?"

"Yes." Of course he was familiar with it. Could you even call yourself a painter in L.A. and not know the Arts District? Thriving among the industrialized architecture of Downtown L.A., the district had been known for its street art, but an increasing trend towards gentrification and beautification had pulled it from the fringe in recent years. David held mixed feelings about the whole affair, but he couldn't argue that the district could provide an opportunity to be seen.

Nonetheless, he felt a vague sense of discomfort stealing in. It writhed, a worm-like parasite in his gut. And with its arrival his mood began to sour. Moments earlier the day had held promise. Not even moments, but mere seconds earlier.

Now his mouth tasted of rot.