“Quiche again, Claire?” I groaned. She was always going about making things over and over until she perfected them. Well, now they’re perfect and I’m nauceous all over at the thought of Claire’s renditions of French food. There is nothing more disgusting than the taste of baked eggs.

Claire sits across from me at the tiny table by the window. She has strung Christmas lights and has Bing Crosby’s Christmas album playing, despite the fact that it’s obviously August. It’s pure Christmas carnage, I tell you.

I pick idly at my hunk of quiche while Claire eats slowly, looking out the half open window, down at the happenings below.

“Hey Andrew, what’s that you brought?” She asks pointing at my old photo collection with her fork.

“Oh,” I said looking down at the small shoebox of photos sitting next to my mutilated plate of quiche, “Old photos I’ve been collecting. I’ve been hanging around the vintage shops lately and I find old photos so amusing.”

“I want to see,” Claire demands, waving her fork.