First message
I set down what I’m working on and give you my full attention. The machinery noise seems to fade. Usually you send a courier so my brow furrows in question. I’m hoping this doesn’t mean you’re already going out of business.
Three offset presses still running in this city. Maybe four. I know, I’ve counted. The digital houses took everything — the quick turnaround work, the catalogs, eventually the clients who didn’t know the difference anymore. The ones who stayed with film stayed because they know the difference. Your shop is one of them. The first time you came in you handled the registration marks before I asked you to check them. Didn’t make a production of it. Just — looked, confirmed, moved on. The way someone does when they actually know what they’re looking at. I’ve been in this trade thirty years and I can count on one hand the people who do that without being told.
You’re one of the last. So am I. If you’re delivering personally something has changed and I need to know what. She’s been gone five years, my wife. I buried her. I see the tear stains on your cheeks before I reach for the poster tube. I look at you properly for a moment.
“You alright?”