Hung Over

Murph wasn't feeling well. Not at all. Or at least … not himself? But who else could he be? He tried to distract himself with a play, but soon closed his laptop. He washed the tea things. Put away letter tiles. Fixed the drape of a blanket. Took to pacing.

He ended up in front of the calendar. As a season ticket-holder of three different playhouses and a regular at the performances of several community theaters, his schedule reflected their schedules. He carefully mapped out optimal dates, making the most of each play's run. He'd been looking forward to the new season, but just now, he was feeling rather flat about it.

Unless …! Should he invite Levity?

Getting a second ticket wouldn't be too difficult.

But which performance?

He didn't have a clue about her tastes.

Had he really only blathered on about himself?

Rude. He'd been unbearably rude.

So selfish.

How mortifying.

Murph lunged for his phone and hesitated over his options. Apologizing on the work group would mean that everyone else would see. But maybe humbling himself like that would demonstrate how serious he was?

A comment? She'd clearly sussed out his no-longer-anonymous account. She'd know it was him, even if nobody else understood what muzjiks was on about. But … would she see it? She received hundreds of comments every day. He'd be lost in the shuffle.

He scrolled through her recent posts.

Maybe he'd feel better if he ate?

A snapshot from a diner near work gave him pause, then gave him purpose. He swiftly dressed for work, then prowled out his door, hoping for a plate of pancakes.

He was still hungry. Or possibly ill. Was he hung over? But all he'd had was … well, admittedly, there had been a lot of food. And ice cream. Could he be lactose intolerant? A quick search made that unlikely. Neither was he in diabetic shock. Or allergic to gluten, blueberries, or bacon. Too much tea? Too little tea?

Was he pacing again? Since when did he pace? Hauling himself to a standstill, he took deep breaths. That's what you were supposed to do. Calming breaths. Cleansing breaths. But he found himself pulling in air faster because he wanted to taste it. Something was there, annoying yet appealing. And it made no sense.

At a loss and unhappy about it, Murph stole down the hall and ducked into the men's room. Bracing his hands on the counter, he stared into his own eyes. His hair was in complete disarray, as if he'd been pulling it. He tried to smooth it back into place.

The door swung open, and Angelo stood there, hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. "You okay, Murph?"

"I think … perhaps … not?"

"Take the rest of the day, yeah?" And with a frown, he asked, "You got anyone at home to look after you?"

"Me?"

Angelo's gaze was steady with concern. His head canted slightly to one side. "I've got some time. I'll see you home. Do you need anything from your desk?"

"Ah. Yes …? I should … yes."

"All right. I'll wash up and meet you there." The younger man offered a casual shrug. "I gotchu, Murph."