|
|
|
|
|
|
|
night. I slipped my arm from under B.C.'s head and inched my way toward the edge of the bed. By the time I made it to the window to make my ritualistic assessment of the new day, I knew it was pointless. The heavy gray pallor still choked the landscape. I could see to the edge of the concrete walkway, but that was as far as it went. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I gathered up pants, shoes, socks, and my favorite golf shirt (the dark blue one with Harbor Springs embroidered on the left sleeve), slipped into the bathroom, got dressed and managed to slip out of the room without waking her. I had a hunch Brenda Cashman wouldn't have awakened if a bomb had gone off. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The horizontal visibility was still what the boys who run the weather bureau call ''condition totally obscured." Suffice it to say that I could see large objects, if they weren't more than ten feet or so in front of me. Keeping to the sidewalk in front of the units, I groped my way down to the office. Bert was there, feet propped on a waste can, chair tilted back, watching the early morning news. When I knocked, he waved me in. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"You're up early," I observed. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Had to. Polly had a rough night. I got up to draw her a hot bath and couldn't go back to sleep." Bert pointed to a lime-crusted Mr. Coffee and invited me to help myself. I did, laced it with a powdered cream substitute |
|
|
|
|
|