“We’re in Pacific Heights,” Doug offered.

“That’s nice.” It was more than nice. It was home to some of the juiciest real estate in the city, and therefore the planet. I couldn’t tell if he was bragging or just finding something to talk about. “What brings you up into the hills?” I spoke before it occurred to me that it really wasn’t any of my business.

“Ed needed to talk lawyer-talk with Viridian.”

Lawyer-talk, boring.

“Sure you can’t stay? We brought plenty of food,” he said encouragingly. “Stuffed squash blossoms. You can’t say no to that.”

I said I already had plans, thanks. I wondered how old he was. Forty or more. He wore a faded red T-shirt, vintage, or at least they were sold as vintage, and jeans in the palest of blue denims. Nobody ever dressed their age in San Francisco. He was the better looking of the couple. He wasn’t wearing glasses today and it suited him. He had a fringe of soft, fair hair and light eyes that matched his jeans. When he was younger, he must have been more than pretty. I hadn’t spent any time talking to him at the party and didn’t have an opinion of him yet, except that he seemed good at striking up conversations, like he did it a lot.

Now he said, “Viridian tells me you’ve taken an interest in poetry.”

I turned off the hose. “Yes.” Taking an interest. It sounded stupid, like I was learning to play the harpsichord.

“I wonder if you’d like to be on hand when we put together the next issue of the magazine.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. “Be on hand?”

“Help out. Make phone calls, keep track of author queries. Pick up the lunch order.”

I was trying to get it straight, what he was saying, and how it all worked. A magazine.

“Nothing too exalted. But you can learn a lot. And we’re always looking for unpaid labor.”

I was still rummaging around my head, looking for words. Could I afford to work for free? Not for very long.

“We’re an excessively casual workplace,” he added. “No dress code. Perish the thought.”

“But I can’t do proofreading. Just so you know. I have a disability, a reading disability. I mean, I can read, but I’m not reliable like that.” I was aware that what he was offering might be a thing of value, and I wanted it fiercely, but I didn’t want to disappoint anybody.

“No proofreading. Lucky you.” He smiled, as if my total lack of qualifications was a plus.

“When were you thinking? And how long? I have to still see to my paying clients, and they get crabby when things die.”