Another bitch gone draining without training

He's standing in the cement floored room, a dark corridor behind him with a slope of tarp partially discouraging that retreat and making it more alluring.

No, He isn't here. No one is here yet, really. Not much attention for the phone, but standing still, indicating a certain level of concentration. Some of this goes into the phone. Some of that into the way he is holding the phone, given dirty hands. The rest seems to be burning off with ambiguous intensity, perhaps planning the group that will be arriving.

I don't think I said... He should be here. I didn't actually tell him to be here. I am planning a gallery opening, actually, I think you know that already. His tone of voice isn't sarcastic, this being the West. It's a friendly sounding version of that interactive self-liberator. He lowers the phone, looks at it quizzically, and hangs up at a silence. It rings again four forward paces further.

Hello. May I interrupt? All I can say is that he wasn't here before, as far as I could see. He definitely isn't here now. On second thought he cranes his neck and looks around the open space- even into the corners without irony.

Uh, Beck- Catching her before she hangs up. Why is this so important to you? Toward the staircase, and with a gentle on the hips turn, toward the tarp over the dark hallway.
Structure, like...? Oh, alright, I'll see you later then.

A ceramic deer rests near a pillar there, shiny in the light wired above it, throwing more complicated shadows into the path. Hanging up the phone again and putting that hand in his pocket, he remembers that he has things to plan for. A curved strip of flesh tone between the blue tarp and the cement corner, shadowy and vague, does not obviously twitch. For the first time he looks alarmed, disturbed, stern. It's gone.

A woman comes striding across the floor, from the other side of the room, her spine seeming to absorbing everything while looking directly at him. Steel cables lace along the surface with respect to inconsistancies in the masonry. The pile of displaced plastic extension cords is still on the floor, near the ceramic deer's discrete arty-aspect. She puts out her hand as though to be kissed, and he meets it for a moment. He takes the cords, their heavy heads swaying, and follows her more slowly. There is now something in her hand, dark against her skirt.