Each piece of furniture is either marble or black leather. Every wall is brushed aluminum and marble every door is glass.
The studio offices are almost obscenely fancy the entire building feels like the modern equivalent of a castle. The receptionist stops at a door and opens it. Her long legs span from the earth up to the clouds. My stomach seems lodged somewhere in my windpipe and I go back to my safe place. The terrifying part is walking down a sterile hallway lined with glass-front cubicles and glossy framed movie posters to sign a seven-figure contract for the film translation. I’ve been writing and drawing Razor Fish since I was twelve, and every single second of the fun part, to me, has been creating it. I nod, trying to trick my thoughts into agreement-Look at this office! Look at these people! Bright lights! Big city!-but it’s a wasted effort. You’re here to sign, not to impress anyone. “I’m fine,” I lie, but he just snorts in response, straightening. I MENTALLY DRAW THE panels of the scene before me as we follow the receptionist down the marble hallway: the woman wears six-inch black heels, her legs go on forever, her hips shift with each step.
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