Pure Language
“You don’t want to do this,” Bennie murmured. “Am I right?”
“Absolutely,” Alex said.
“You think it’s selling out. Compromising the ideals that make you, ‘you.’”
Alex laughed. “I know that’s what it is.”
“See, you’re a purist,” Bennie said. “That’s why you’re perfect for this.”
Alex felt the flattery working on him like the first sweet tokes of a joint you know will destroy you if you smoke it all. The long awaited brunch with Bennie Salazar was winding down, and Alex’s hyper-rehearsed pitch to be hired as a mixer had already flopped. But now, as they eyed each other from lean perpendicular couches doused in winter sun that poured from a skylight in Bennie’s Tribeca loft, Alex felt the sudden, riveting engagement of the older man’s curiosity. Their wives were in the kitchen; their baby daughters were between them on a red Persian carpet, warily sharing a kitchen set.