Communication after 54 years

There is a place in the next town called Girlee’s.

It’s pretty much a plain square box of a place, possibly cinder block based, and looks as though it would be well-known to truckers. It has a reputation, though, as a good spot for breakfast.

          I have to admit to being a comfy-booth-omelet-ordering sort of breakfaster, and I have a suspicion this place will turn out to be a stool-at-the-bar-hashbrown kind of place, but My Guy has mentioned going there more than once, so I decided what the heck, why not.

          The only thing is, last night when we talked about it, the conversation went thusly:

          He: “So do you want to go out for breakfast tomorrow?”

          Me:“Well, I have to pick up friends at 12:15, so what time would we leave?”

          (Knowing that My Guy typically doesn’t have all wheels on the ground before 9:30 or 10:00)

          He: “We could leave at 8:30.” (This was true heroism on his part.)

 

          Except I really didn’t want to rush, we were busy on Friday, and we had absolutely nothing going on Saturday, and I pointed this out, thinking now we were organized. We could enjoy a leisurely breakfast, meander on our way home, and no one would have to leap out of bed or rush back.

         

          We went to bed, and I woke up this morning with plans of doubling my morning walk today, then popping out for chicken and corn for tonight’s dinner before I leave at noon.

          At 7:30, someone’s (other than me) phone alarm went off.

          “Why did you set your alarm?”

          “Aren’t we going out for breakfast?”