Glossy Finish

Matt had a party last night at his studio. Why weren't you there? An hour isn't enough notice for you?
Photographers from around the cities converged around hummus and archival prints. It was all very sweet. The "artist" two studio doors down spent most of the evening interrupting conversation with his loud chiseling. His name is Zoron or Borflat or Hotel Balkan or something.
I stopped outside his door on my way to the bathroom and tried to peer in, with a mind to invite him to come have a beverage, or take the rest of the night off--please.
In the romantic-comedy version of this event, he opens the door into my face and as I tumble backward I throw my wine on his good meeting suit, making him late to meet the backers of his next big sculpture (enormous mucus-shaped rock (upright)).
In the reality version, I overhear that he is listening to angry art music. I change my mind about inviting him into the party: he's probably not good with humans. As I slip into the bathroom, he opens the door all mumbly "grind your bones to make my bread."
Fine, Dude. Your loss. Who wants to share their beer with the guy at the top of the beanstalk, anyway?