"Old red eyes is back..." I sang tunelessly to myself as I stared at myself in the mirror.
It had gone well yesterday; with prodigous use of smoke and mirrors I'd managed to justify my existance. My hand had been shaken and backs slapped. My boss and I celebrated in the traditional manner - going to one of America's many 'world famous' bars (hint to the owners: if nobody outside of Allentown has heard of it, it probably isn't world famous. But I guess 'Number 1 in the Holiday Inn parking lot' hasn't got quite the same ring to it) and drinking beer so cold that one's taste buds are numbed to the flavour until we fell over.
I straightened and put my hand in the back pocket of my jeans, hoping to find my room key. Instead I found a neatly folded piece of red paper. I opened it and saw First-Born's spikey handwriting:
"Dear Dad,
I don't want to go home. I want to stay at your house.
xxooxx"
I wondered when she'd put it in my pocket. Probably on Sunday; she'd been up and about much earlier than me (the Sponge Bob Square Pants The Movie video game tie-in waits for no man.) At least it explained why she'd been so quiet on the drive back to The Ex. Probably waiting for me to say she could stay another night, we could sit on the sofa, watch Toy Story 2 and eat cake. Instead I'd dropped her off and gone to work until 2am.
I glanced back at the mirror, but couldn't look the reflection in the eyes.
