rovnavaha.

Grier is finding the balance.
Holding on and letting go only look converse from the surface.
Beneath the nail polish and overpriced dye jobs, they’re twins.

Not as close as Elsie & Enna, he thinks.
In their case, the line where one ends and the next begins is little more than a watercolor blur.

Shaking the thought from his head, he dumps the eggs down the garbage disposal.
He doesn’t eat eggs, doesn’t even like them. 
Why did he make them?

He likes French fries.
He likes pipe tobacco, and trout fishing.

A rusty old Festiva drives past the apartment window, a definite lemon.

He stiffens; he knows.

She likes eggs.

Fuck.