A dot

She came around the corner, greeting before she was fully in his office. His forehead was resting on the palm of his hand – earphones in, head down, working.

She walked closer, careful not to startle him, and was hit by the sharp smell. He was sour with yesterday’s sweat. The paper in front of him was blank. He was idly drawing a black dot, careful to keep it inky obsidian while it expanded. She cleared her throat and was surprised to hear him mumble half a hello. He’d heard her come in, but hadn’t responded.

He looked up at her, his face vacuous and cosmically uninterested.

“You look like shit” she gaped.

He blankly stared at her, waiting on her to make her point.

“Are you okay?” She asked, her mind grasping for tactful ways of asking whether someone died.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just, doodling.” He replied hoarsely.

And she understood it then, he’d hit the catatonia at the bottom of his well, in so deep that he stopped caring about anything and everything.

“Tomorrow might be better,” he muttered to himself “maybe not.”

He looked at her again, rubbing the oil from his hair between his fingers

“For now, I want to draw this dot.”


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