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Colonel Harry Driver slurped some of the coffee past his sudsy lips, grimaced, set the cup down on the toilet tank and went back to the task of clearing out the stubble. As usual, unless the woman confronted him with a direct question, he saw no reason to give her anything other than one more in his string of inarticulate mumbles. |
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This was one of Flora's pink chenille mornings as opposed to light blue, sort of a powdery color that he liked a great deal better than the ridiculous pink. He washed away the residue of the shaving, wiped off his face and rinsed out the bowl. |
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"Fixed your favorite, Colonel," she informed him. "Maple-flavored oatmeal." |
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Harry wondered if the dull-witted woman had actually deluded herself into thinking he liked it. "Good," he mumbled, brushing past her and walking back into the dimly lit bedroom. He could hear her waddling back down the hall and descending the stairs. |
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A man in the military, especially one stationed in Newfoundland in the middle of February, doesn't have many uniform choices. So Harry Driver pulled out his blues, affixed the insignia to his lapel, combed his thinning gray-yellow hair and went downstairs. |
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Flora was ready for him. The table was set, his cup had been refilled and the morning |
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