icy

Sunday lazy morning lie in bed, not asleep, to lazy to get up.
Get up, there is the sound of the son working in the kitchen, he is heating up a cake, making the Sunday breakfast.
Read the news on the computer, there is nothing new,

Let them eat cake on a Sunday.

Listen to the son return to his bedroom.
Read the news on the computer, all the reports, the speculations, on the one hand read the one thing and see that this is left out on another news source, to be replaced with a different view.

The wife awakens and tells the son that the bell on the cooker has rung some time ago

-Oh-

The son gets into a rage.
How could we, why didn't we, and so forth

Hear him remove the cake from the oven.
Carry it carefully, caro, into the sitting room breakfast table.

Follow the son out, touch his back as he is at the table cutting the cake
He bursts into a rage, he shouts loudly, starts to cry.
The disorientation of a fifteen year old.
The rage at things not going the way they should.

Let him sit down, finish cutting the cake, and give him a slice.
His humour is better after five minutes, he is cheerful and happy again,
but there is one strange thing.

The filling of the cake is cold, it was not in the oven long enough.
The wife must have been dreaming, the strange thing is, only one half of the cake is that cold, give a piece to the son so that he will understand. He agrees, it is almost icy.