Vince's favourite thing about those lazy Summer Sundays was sleeping in. Saturday night brought partying and boozing, and when it came time Vince would stumble home to Nabootique. He would stagger up the stairs and slip into bed, always inadvertently choosing the wrong one in his drunken stupor.
In waking up, he would lay in the bed feeling the sunlight sparkle over him and take in the rhythmic breathing of the soul lying next to him. He would let himself be taken over by sleep again. Sooner or later, a stroke of the hair, and then a voice. They would waft over to him, gently pushing their way into his dreams,
"Morning, little man."