"Almost two-thirty. You just get up and--"
I laughed out loud, as loud as you can laugh at that time of the
morning. "Roll over and go back to sleep," I told her. "They'll shut
it off in a minute."
I shut my sleepy lids and went through the deep breath routine. The
radio stopped. Then an afterthought; this was Friday, and I wanted to
sleep late on a Saturday unsullied and unwelcomed by soap operas.
Another deep breath, complicated by a yawn, and I went back to sleep.
* * * * *
Over our coffee Helen pulled aside the kitchen curtain.
"I thought there was some reason I didn't wake up until ten. Look
across the street," and she pointed.
In front of the Olsen's, a red panel truck, Chuck's Radio Service.
Next door, in front of the Werner's, Harper Radio Parts. In the
Smith's driveway, Rapid Radio Repair.
"What are you grinning at?"
"Me? I'm not grinning. Not at this time of the morning."
"Pete Miller, you were, too. Just like the cat that ate the fish."
"Canary, you mean."
"That's what I said. What's so funny?"
"Nothing," I said. "We just got a good night's sleep for a change. I
like my sleep."
She harrumphed a bit, as suspicious as she usually is, and I went to
the stove for more coffee. Over my shoulder I said, "Want to play a
little cards tonight?"