Robert stared down at the plate of poached eggs on toast, gone cold, the melted butter and yolk congealing in an ugly way. Good thing he wasn’t hungry, anyway. His temples throbbed, and he felt like a battalion of elves behind his left eye hit at it steadily with tiny pick axes. So much for getting drunk on Christmas. Upstairs, Ethan was listening to one of the CDs Robert had bought him for Christmas against his better judgment, an older disc by a band with the oh-so-clever name of Crystal Method.
Robert snorted and gathered up his plate and spoon. “Fitting.”
In the kitchen, he rinsed the plate and fork and put them in the dishwasher. He looked at the gray day, wondering if it would snow.
Suddenly, for what he thought was no reason at all, he felt like crying. He sat down heavily on one
