“So what’s the big idea…?”
I was asking myself more than the art director sitting on the couch, opening another beer.
“Or, I suppose, first I should ask, what’s the point?”
The art director looked over at me, rolled his eyes, and took a drink, knowing full well, I was just getting started.
We had been through this time and time again. He would sit there, drinking and checking his phone, while I would fall into a whiskey-fueled, passionate soliloquy about giving the clients something better.
Outside, the protesters were back, chanting and holding signs about war, or oil or injustice. They stood out front and yelled at the empty office below.
We were doing our best to ignore the show. We had work to do; music to make, ideas to craft.
But she was back, too.
I’d seen her the last time we put our feet up on the ledge and heckled them.
She stood out immediately. The focus of everything around her went soft like a Gaussian blur, and it felt as if her eyes were a tractor beam pulling at my soul.
Suddenly the big idea didn’t matter quite as much—there was different idea altogether brewing in my mind.