The Master accepts this fact in his usual calm manner, then heaves himself out of his recliner and shuffles to the sink.
He’s not worried. She’ll come back. She always does.
He smiles softly to himself, a look which he knows appears hard and grim to observers.
But he doesn’t care.
He is confident.
An outsider might not see the allure of a widowed octogenarian, but The Mistress can’t help herself.
He flicks on M*A*S*H and dozes off to the sounds of his own smug certainty playing back in his mind.
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