7
The sun rose, sending its rays through the morning mist and causing it to disperse. Little clouds of steam danced above the wet pavement outside the blue-and-gray bungalow, like ghosts rising into the crisp morning air.
The sound of a shower running, the hard spray striking naked flesh, could be heard through the thin walls of the bungalow. Bruce hummed a nonsensical tune from his childhood as he applied sweet-smelling shampoo to his long, wet hair. In the small kitchen, Emily stood over a black cast-iron frying pan, watching two pools of clear egg whites beginning to turn white around two yellow yolks.
Bruce turned off the water, wrung his hair, then stepped out onto the fine cotton towel he’d brought into the bathroom with him. He quickly dried his body with a matching towel. Next,
