The woman approached Ansel, too close for his comfort. Normally, he would have enjoyed being in close proximaty with an attractive potential employer, yet after her swift hug and double cheek kiss, Ansel was feeling highly self-concious of his smell.

Yet, if she smelled anything, she never let on.

“Hi, you must be Ansel, they said you were pretty. Hi, I’m Zia,” she said, giving a nervous, toothy grin. Ansel nodded. She wasn’t the typical Soho artist he was used to working for, the ones who gave up bathing and wore their hair in purple dreadlocks and preached about the everlasting effects of commercialization and Trent Reznor.

Zia was different. She had that simple look of Ali MacGraw in Love Story, and she had the nervous talking habits of Annie Hall. Ansel, despite being constantly distracted by his overpowering stench, was smitten.

Ansel only heard half of what she was saying, he was too focused on the prospect of working with her.

He took the job.