Ficlets

I wait up for Preston and find two o’clock passing before my eyes. When the door opens he is standing there, tie crooked, shirt disheveled. He works for a law firm down the street from mine. He is brilliant really, a senior partner before he was 25, more clients than anyone else in the company, but that is all he does; he does his job. He drags in mumbling something about the Warner case and a that batty old hag before falling into a chair with a glass of the wine I had had earlier. He rubs his eyes tiredly and asks me how my day went. I smile at him for a moment and then tell him about New York. He is speechless, maybe for the first time in his life, I note. He puts the glass down and looks at me with difficulty,

“So, does this mean you’re…you’re leaving me?” He seems so suprised, I can’t believe he hasn’t figured out that a part of me left a long time ago, but then again, I guess he wasn’t really paying attention.