"So you're artistic?" Mitch asked, brushing some droplets from the shoulder of his Patagonia vest. Danny flushed as if he was last-picked boy for the playground kickball team, and busied himself with his phone. The elevator doors finally opened at their shared floor.
"Graphic designer," he shrugged, pointing to his ears with what he hoped was an apologetic, slightly dismissive smile. Danny was the graphic designer; he was short and chubby, wearing a purple bow tie, with jean cuffs rolled up to his knees. Was Danny "artistic"? What did Mitch think? "I do the posters." He closed, pointing to the line of blown up advertisements on the wall.
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