As the scheduled time for our meeting came and went, though, I wondered if I was supposed to contact him. I couldn’t remember. He usually Skyped me first. That was our pattern, but maybe I was supposed to contact him. Unsure, I went on and pushed the button to call. It rang a few times before he finally answered. He still looked bad. The lines on his face were particularly pronounced in the camera glare, seeming to highlight his tiredness. His voice was hollow. His eyes were rimmed red. I noticed the bottle of bourbon and a glass with dark liquid in it sitting on the coffee table. When he finally spoke, I knew he was beyond drunk. Wasted. I’d never seen him wasted before – drunk, yes, but wasted? Shit-faced? Never. “I forgot about the meeting.” The words were devoid of emotion. I hesitated. “Uh, it’s okay. We can reschedule.” He picked up the glass of bourbon and looked at the camera, taking a drink. “Prob’ly a good idea.” I hated the look in his eyes. He was like a robot. Uncaring. Unfeeling.
