Ross held the ugly Christmas sweater at arm’s length, studying it, wondering if it would slip itself on to him in the middle of the night; some kind of knitted ambush. It’d been left on his step. It had to have been his mother - she always insisted on making new ones for everyone each year. She’d outdone herself this time.
His thoughts turned whimsical, fanciful. Why couldn’t he just skip this year’s holiday encounters, avoid the conversations and relations he knew would have him reaching for the hard booze shortly after arriving?
But duty called. Reluctantly, he put it on.
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