Mort

The rapid fluttering of his eyelids concerned her. She knew of his tendency to self-medicate when he was stressed and the inquiry at work was terrifying to all of them. So she wondered what he took and when it might wear off enough for her to get a coherent answer to the pressing questions she had run over repeatedly in her head during the long drive to his house.
He sat hunched in the deep, leather creases of the couch as if he were trying to hide, but the bobbing of his head offset the intent of his posture. He wouldn’t reply when she asked what he took. He did finally open his eyes and look in her general direction, but there was no focus or understanding in them. She would have to wait him out and that was the last thing she wanted after the day they had.
She paced back and forth in his living room, taking in the poorly composed self-portraits he had framed in a row along the longest wall. At one point he snapped his head back and emitted a soft snort that she hoped meant he was snapping out of it, but then he slumped over on the couch and dozed off. She imagined he must have taken something powerful to numb the shock and fear of the day’s events. Their company was under investigation now for fraud and data breaches that all fell squarely on his team. Whether that was fair, she didn’t know-that is what she hoped to hear from him, but seeing as he was a sleepy mess on the couch she realized it was time to go. Answers would have to wait until tomorrow.

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