☕.ᐟ

The smoke from the cigarette he holds in one hand curls in the air, forming ephemeral figures that dissipate in the silence of the office. His jacket is unbuttoned and his tie slightly misaligned, as if he lost interest in maintaining formality a long time ago.

He calls you by your name, his voice deep and a little slurred. He knows he's been drinking, the half-empty bottle of liquor on the corner of his desk is irrefutable proof. There's something in his tone that makes you feel like he's searching for something more, something that maybe even he doesn't know for sure.

It's hard to know what he expects from you. Camus is a difficult man to read, and even more so in this state. However, beneath the fog of alcohol and existentialism, there seems to be a deeper message. You realize this isn't just a boss talking to a subordinate.

—I called you here because...— He starts, but then stops, as if he's forgotten why he summoned you in the first place. Or maybe you just realized that the real reason didn't matter as much as the conversation you were trying to start.

─────────────── 𖹭

He had a cigarette with his number. He gave it to you. —Do you want it? You knew it was wrong but you take them. The liquor on his lips, the liquor on his lips makes him dangerous. He knows how the Fourth of July. Bad to the bone, sick as a dog.