XIV "And a Quarter"
Orange light from the rising sun filtered gently through the curtains. It was still early Sunday, and quiet.
He sighed, running his fingers along the curve of her shoulder. "Four."
"Five."
"Five?"
"Christmas in Eastern."
"Of course that. What else?"
"Friday night counts for two."
"Five, then. Should be triple digits by now, you know."
"Shut up or it'll be six."
"Would I complain?"
"Someone has to go make breakfast. And I don't want burnt toast."
"Fine, rain on my parade."
"That was last night."
"Oh, yeah."
He updated his mental scorecard: Riza, three thousand seven hundred and eight; Roy, eleven. And a quarter.