A Father's Love

The Bottle

Father’s eye drifted to the clock on his desk for what felt like the hundredth time. 8:57am.

Mr. Test was late.

There were many things that Father could think to say about that man. In fact, it was something that occupied a great deal of his spare time: coming up with new things to say to and about him. But from the very beginning of their arrangement, punctual had always been at the top of his list. Father liked that about him. So few people treated his time like the precious commodity that it was.

But today, he was late. This should have been a cause for concern, but Father supposed he could allow Hugh some manner of grace-- this time.

After his first round of meetings, and still no breakfast arrived, Father begrudgingly decided that coffee and a pastry would have to do. At least, until lunch.

But as time marched on, it became clear that something was amiss. The kitchen lights were still off when he went down to check, and there was no sign that anyone had been there; nothing but his own coffee grounds from earlier, at least.

The audacity. Father had to order carryout for the first time in over a month. Carryout, and he was paying a personal chef!

As he ignored the speaker in the meeting he had no interest in and picked at the sad attempt at a sandwich he didn’t even want, he found himself seething. The absolute gall of that man, deciding when to take a day off-- and with no warning? He hadn’t even garnered the courage to come and tell Father to his face that he wasn’t going to work. But he was still there. His little hatchback was still parked in the garage.

Was Hugh hiding? The coward. He should have known better than to wander in places he didn’t belong.

Not that he had been warned; but it should have been obvious by now. Father never found a reason to venture to the East Wing. He had no business being where Father was not. What was Hugh there for if not to be at his disposal?

He was sulking, wasn’t he?

Father had lost his temper, and Hugh had lost his nerve. Typical. It wasn’t like he should have been surprised by such spineless behavior. There were glimpses of stubbornness here and there; but Father still had taken it easy. Hugh's limits were far below what Father knew his temper was capable of.

Maybe he had been harsh; perhaps a little unreasonable. But really, was that all that it was going to take to make Hugh tuck his tail and run? What waste of decent potential.

“Er, sir?” The gruff voice derailed his train of thought and his head snapped up. “Is all of this alright with you so far?”

“Yes, of course.” Father shook his head as he swept a hand through his hair, purely out of frustration. How dare Hugh keep him so occupied? And by doing nothing?

“If that will be all?” he muttered, puffing at his pipe as he sank back in his bright red chair.

The other attendees scrambled, but ultimately wrapped up their points to offer hasty farewells. All but one. Father tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, glaring at the name still visible on his screen.

“I take it you still have some concerns?” he asked, teeth grit around the worn tip of his pipe.

There was a pause for a slow, audible drag from what was surely a foul smelling cigar. “You seem distracted, Uno,” the man said. “More than usual, anyway.”

Father was glad that he had chosen to leave his camera off for the day; he was sure that it would have been impossible to hide his scowl. “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”