For Sonya’s Three Line Tales. Miserable, I know. Sorry about that.
Christmas Eve and the house is full of light spilling out onto the street, so inviting, even to someone who left slamming the door two months before.
I didn’t phone ahead, Christmas Eve, of course I’d be home, there was no need; I have a key, I can let myself in.
They are there, parents, sister, brother, finishing decorating the tree, having the first glass of wine, and on the table, the traditional stolen that we have every year when the tree is decorated is waiting, already cut—only four slices.