Breakfast In Bed

My sister Catherine usually brings my father his tea in the morning. She went in the other morning and was convinced he was dead. Not a sound out of him. He had the pale pallor of a news junkie. His glasses still hanging around his neck from the night's binge. She called once, she called twice, she called thrice. Still no response. She considered leaning in to give him a shake but then he stirred only to reveal lying between the pillows the wires from the headphones. The pieces still stuck dangling from his ears. The station tuned to RTE1. It had been a wild night out on the town.