Matt

Sue scrapes burnt salmon from the frying pan with candy cane fingernails. “Can I help?” Bruce says. She pushes him away. On the oak coffee table, in the 2nd floor studio, two champagne flutes sit brimming with rosé. A netted pine lay wedged between a worn bicycle and the coat closet, like a 6ft marlin in a 5ft pontoon. Bruce yanks on his rubber boots and jumps out the window. “Merry Christmas,” Sue says.