"Okay," Roger said. He realized then that his hut was a fucking mess of creative misfires, so he began snatching papers up in messy fists and shoving them into the open guitar case. He gave a crooked, sheepish smile and left the room, returning with a homemade chair from the table. He stood as he was, allowing Anatoly the bed as he took the chair.

"So, uh, what's up?" Like he could have been any smoother. In another time and place, maybe.