Work Text:
One little goat, one little goat, Steven sings from somewhere in the room. Which my father bought for two zuzim...
The Egyptian heat swirls around Marc, carrying memories of Layla under the chuppah with him, the promises he once made. Fuck.
Marc studies his reflection on the side of the bottle. Not Steven, but Marc. The Star of David he wears, the tired circles under his eyes. (Then the cat came and ate the goat, Steven continues in the background.) His reflection offers him a bitter expression.
One more job, he tells himself. He tips the bottle, drinking the remains.