Iris
I step into the living room as Arthur moves to the home bar to pour me a drink. “What’s your drink of choice?” he calls from the dining room, which is adjacent to where I’m standing. “Still red wine?”
“Yeah,” I reply, glancing around before I tentatively take a seat in one of the soft armchairs by the fireplace. There’s no fire flickering now, the room instead lit by a couple of small lamps and the city lights outside.
I hear Arthur banging around for a moment, his movements clumsy and slow. A few moments later, he returns with my wine and his glass refilled with whiskey.
“For the lady,” he says, handing me my glass.
I take it, sipping slowly as I watch him flop into the chair across from me. He looks messier than usual, his typical polished appearance replaced by
