The following Saturday, Harry’s bedside telephone ringing beat out the morning car horn symphony, the aroma of coffee to be automatically brewed, and the alarm clock by a country mile:
“Wie sind Sie, leibe?
“Wh…what time is it anyway?”
“2p.m. dear, why?”
“2p.m.? What time is it here? I always forget.”
“Look at the clock.”
“Oh, yeah…Five a.m.?!”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry,” she giggled.
“Oh well, it’s only three hours until my alarm clock goes off…it’s Saturday.” He yawned.
“How’s your mom?”
“She’s fine. Won’t let me help her with anything, as usual.”
“What did you do today?”
“We went to St. Mary’s, and also to the Puppet Theatre Museum in Lubeck.
What are your plans?”
“Well, I’m going to have my usual leisurely Saturday pancake feast and do some work in the office here. I’ve still got too many open case files. Chief wants me to work with Hernandez and try to sew up some loose ends next week. I can’t really go into the details, but it’s gonna make for a long week. I’ll call you Wednesday for our big day. I’ve got a surprise for you when you get back.”
“Ah, I love surprises,” she said.
“Greeetttaaa!!!” Sabine cried.
“I’d better go, Harry, mother is calling.”
“Ok, sweetheart, I miss you, we’ll talk next week.”
He put the phone down, pulled the five heavy blankets over his head and attempted to reverse the forward pull of the morning. And he beamed.
©2008-2013 By Brendan Shea (FitzGerald Press, USA)