I am sitting at the end of my conference table when Andrew bursts through the front door. He looks drunk, disheveled, and completely out of it.
“Are you okay?” I ask, looking up from my laptop.
“I’m The Boss,” Andrew slurs, wagging his finger in my direction. “And I’m the one in charge.”
I close my laptop, fold my arms, and rest my chin on my wrists. I giggle to myself and give him a little smirk.
“You’re the one in charge,” I repeat.
“Thasss right,” he says, closing the door behind him and stumbling across the room. “And you’re not doing your job. You’re suposssssed to be writing a novel. And you’re wassshting time on shhtupid haterssssssss. Sssstop. Now.”
“Okay. Anything else to say?”
“Uhhh…” Andrew squints his eyes and looks around the room in confusion. He messes up his hair as he thinks about it some more. “Sssstop messhing around and ssssit at your laptop and type up your damn manushhcript. Got it?”
“I got it.”
Andrew promptly stumbles into the bedroom and faceplants directly onto the bed. Less than a minute later, he is passed out and snoring softly. I shake my head and follow him in. I remove his shoes and try to push him aside so I can pull the blankets over him. Instead he reaches over and pulls me down on top of him. He wraps me in his arms and snuggles up close.
“You’re my Writer Extraordinaire…” he mumbles softly as he falls asleep again.
“You’re my Muse…”