The clock on the kitchen wall read ten past six.
“We should take a trip,” he said, his voice dropping slightly.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Somewhere quiet,” he said.
“We have a lot to plan for the winter,” he added, pouring himself another splash from the bottle.
“What kind of plans?” I asked.
“Just future security,” he said, his voice slipping into that soft drone he used for financial advice. “We are not as young as we used to be.”
He took another deep drink, nearly emptying his glass.
He shook his head, his eyelids fluttering as he looked down at his plate.
He reached for his water glass, but his hand missed the rim by an inch before he corrected his grip.
“Must be the long drive from the office,” he muttered.
He leaned back in his chair, his shoulders sinking into the cushions.
The fork slipped from his fingers and clattered onto his plate.
“Arthur?” I said.
He did not answer, his eyes half-closed as he stared at the center of the table.
