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?”
