The Sterling avalance.

Emile walked out of the wake that evening just as the dew was getting tired. The air was wet and cold, and when he breathed out the cloud of grey air that escaped was peppered with moisture, like seeds on a fresh loaf of bread. Emile tightened his jacket around him and turned the collar up, shivering momentarily when the collar brushed against the back of his neck. He was warm and it had nothing to do with fireplaces or women and everything to do with whiskey.

His father had left the wake early, perhaps sensing the mood changing towards raucous appreciation for life, and wanting nothing to do with it. His boy was dead in a way that is different from the death that followed Emile, black and brittle like glass. Emile watched him go and then turned to the people gathered to celebrate his brother's life. They stood arrayed in front of him, waiting for him to begin the festivities. Emile felt like a murderer does when the first light of day crests the horizon and colors his hands red. He raised his glass and drank down a glass of wine, turning away as he did so. The crowd followed suit, and as the flush of alcohol threaded itself across the room, Emile allowed himself to blend into the feelings that surrounded him, pale vinegar stains on wallpapered rooms.

A girl was weeping across the room and nobody seemed to notice except for Emile. The girl was his brothers's girlfriend or so he assumed and he made his way through a jostling crowd to say something. He stopped in front of her, her eyes facing his shoes, and realized only then that he did not know what to say. He did not offer any condolences to her at all, even when she halted the flow of tears long enough to look at him, perhaps to vaguely recognize in him the features that she recognized in Mason's face. Perhaps his cheekbones were as prominent as those of a skull. Perhaps he had the same ring of grey around his irises that faded into a tired blue during the winter months. She looked at him and nodded a hello and then walked away towards the bar. Emile wondered why his brother had dated her at all - he saw nothing in her that traveled well with beauty. She smelled like lemons, Emile noted.

-Rich
the beautiful damsels watch television