“Do you know why you’ve been called here today?”
My boss sits behind his heavy black desk. He looks at me across pictures of his kids and one of those physics toys with the silver balls that clack against one another. Somehow, his cycles through a pattern of movements without slowing even though I’ve never seen anyone touch it.
“Um.” I clear my throat and tug on my robe where it has bunched around my waist. These things are super uncomfortable to sit in. They look hella dramatic when you’re looming at the end of someone’s bed in the dark, though. “I’m not exactly sure, sir.”
I’m fairly sure it has to do with the fuck up from last night, but why mention that before he does?
My boss unfolds himself, tentacle by tentacle, from his massive leather chair and crosses to the file cabinet along the far wall. He leaves a trail of something gelatinous and I’m momentarily distracted by intense gratitude that I don’t work in Janitorial. He selects a rather thick file from one of the drawers and oozes his way back to the desk. The trail of goo sizzles slightly.
“We keep a record of all failed retrievals. It happens sometimes; the target just isn’t ready to go.” He slaps the folder down on his desk. “These are yours. From this month.”
*7/1/17 Speed Writing prompt: “trust, death, denial”