02-11-2022, 02:08 AM
Darius lit up like Penina’s children on Chanukah, and Zechariah’s smile widened.
This was going to be too easy.
Zechariah set his folder down before him with the same gravity a rabbi might set the Torah scrolls out. Except there was no minyan here: no ten men to say a prayer for the cruel, cruel world Darius was signing himself into.
“I, too, have paperwork to be reviewed,” he answered in kind, content in the world. “And signed. I have marked clearly where your signature and the date is required, and I ask that you print underneath it as well.”
It was not effortless, nor did he perform any pretense that it was. He had spent more time than he spent heckling men (both witting and unwitting) via post, putting together each carefully researched enforceable line (and casually tucking in a few that were not necessarily enforceable but sounded mighty menacing nonetheless) in quiet conjunction with all the perceived slights he had stacked against Darius.
He glanced at the food presented, arching a brow. Was it less kosher than his own household? Almost certainly. Almost. Was it also substantially more enticing than what his faithful but nonetheless overworked, out-of-his-waters manservant dished out that night? Oh God, yes.
“Thank you. I already ate,” he admitted, but let his glance meander back over to the table, “but it does look tempting.”
He nudged his carefully prepared folder toward Darius. Then, he dragged the offered files over his side of the desk, reminiscent of a trapdoor spider snatching its hapless prey. Did Darius remember making Zechariah eat dirt? Because Zechariah certainly did.
“Sign the retainer agreement,” Zechariah answered lightly, as though that did not entail a year-long contract of hazy obligations which all ended in a plump bank for him, “and we can get started on this important business.”
This was going to be too easy.
Zechariah set his folder down before him with the same gravity a rabbi might set the Torah scrolls out. Except there was no minyan here: no ten men to say a prayer for the cruel, cruel world Darius was signing himself into.
“I, too, have paperwork to be reviewed,” he answered in kind, content in the world. “And signed. I have marked clearly where your signature and the date is required, and I ask that you print underneath it as well.”
It was not effortless, nor did he perform any pretense that it was. He had spent more time than he spent heckling men (both witting and unwitting) via post, putting together each carefully researched enforceable line (and casually tucking in a few that were not necessarily enforceable but sounded mighty menacing nonetheless) in quiet conjunction with all the perceived slights he had stacked against Darius.
He glanced at the food presented, arching a brow. Was it less kosher than his own household? Almost certainly. Almost. Was it also substantially more enticing than what his faithful but nonetheless overworked, out-of-his-waters manservant dished out that night? Oh God, yes.
“Thank you. I already ate,” he admitted, but let his glance meander back over to the table, “but it does look tempting.”
He nudged his carefully prepared folder toward Darius. Then, he dragged the offered files over his side of the desk, reminiscent of a trapdoor spider snatching its hapless prey. Did Darius remember making Zechariah eat dirt? Because Zechariah certainly did.
“Sign the retainer agreement,” Zechariah answered lightly, as though that did not entail a year-long contract of hazy obligations which all ended in a plump bank for him, “and we can get started on this important business.”
