I’m painting my toenails with black polish as Ford makes his pitch.
“For three hundred, I could get you into an eleven seventy-five atrium, which would position you very nicely in the next, say, eight to ten years.”
“Um hmm,” I say, carefully applying the paint. It would be easier to use holosticks, but I like painting, frustrating as it is.
“Then for five, I can get you into an arresta bid. Now, I know what you’ve heard on the beams about those, but as far as I can tell, they’re reasonably safe.”
I paused to blow at my feet.
“For example, last year, me and Chryst went in on one, you know, fifty-fifty, and made out with twelve points between us.”
“Then for seven, I’ve got a dipden, what folks used to do with old slamshares, but it doesn’t really work the same way, but you don’t need to know about all that.”
“And if you’re looking to invest in the kids, we’ve got seven one nine deluge.”
“Let’s just stay with what we’ve been doing.” I snap the polish bottle shut, smile.
“Okay, well, that’s fine if that’s what you wanna do. You know it makes no nevermind to me. But.”
“Great.” I stand up, smooth my robe, extend my hand.
He shakes it.
I go, “Give my best to Chryst.”
He nods, closes his beamfeed.