Seventeen
“This is a crisis.”
Ferrero threw up his arms and marched into my apartment without preamble.
“Won’t you come in,” I offered to his back.
He whirled around on me as I closed the door. “It has come to my attention,” he boomed, “that you are a sales executive.”
He looked tired.
“That is true.”
Fashion week was always stressful for him, and I had heard there were problems with suppliers and an embargo on a tiny Eastern European country that exported handmade glass beads. Top it off with the whatever had thrown him into a tizzy and no wonder he appeared on my doorstep looking haggard and pointing out a well-known fact.
“That is unacceptable,” he continued, pacing nervously on my living room rug. “A muse cannot be concerned with… business.”
He said it like it was a bad word.
