The Producers’ Meeting
Ryan sat motionless at one end of the long, black conference table, his spine a rod of resistance, his arms folded tightly across his chest. A single droplet of condensation rolled down the untouched pitcher of water in front of him, slow and voyeuristic, as if the room itself were waiting for its occupants to break a sweat.
Luis, by contrast, had begun to wilt. He slouched next to Ryan, loose limbed and leaking energy, one knee bouncing nervously beneath the table like a trapped animal in fight-or-flight paralysis. Unlike Ryan, a sheen of sweat glistened at Luis’ temples. He didn’t touch it.
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