A Man in his Lair

Trusting that Leah would be busy for some time, Sam settled into his favorite chair in the study.  Sometimes they called it the den, and when giving someone a quick tour of the house he'd call it the library.  Really though, it was the den, his den, his lair.

Sam ruefully swirled his drink and stared at the wall above the flat screen.  His vision went a little blurry as he zoned out, his mind escaping from even this quiet bit of reality.  The drink would help with that.  The drink always helped with that, and without asking a bunch of questions, without scrutinizing and pressuring with pursed lips and scolding eyes.

No, that job was already taken.

Shaking off his funk, Sam put the glass down on the small tray beside the chair, the grand throne of leather and manliness.  In a momentary lapse of addiction, he picked it back up and walked it over to the desk, farther from reach.  If the work was going to be accomplished he'd need a clearer head than a double dose of Jack would likely allow.

Temptation abated for the time being, weary fingers trapsed along the spines of the many books lining the shelves of the den.  Most were typical enough, self-help books about maximizing your potential, getting ahead in business, and networking to the fullest.  A sneer of self contempt twisted Sam's mouth as he considered them, and by extension himself, the self he had created.

Yes, that time was done.

He found the book he wanted, an older tome, its cover cracked and worn.  Within he hoped to find the answers.  Leah would never understand, not now as he searched during nearly every spare moment nor likely was she to understand after he had found the answer.  That did not matter.  Nothing else mattered.


The End

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