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Then I came a little wider awake and realized that we could get breakfast
right here. Or could we? What hours did the kitchen function? What time is it
now? I checked the notice posted by the dumbwaiter, was depressed by it.
I had cleaned my teeth and put on my foot and was pulling on my pants
(while noting that I must buy clothes today; these trousers were reaching
critical mass), when Gwen woke up.
She opened one eye. "Have we met?"
"We of Boston would not consider it a formal introduction. But I'm willing
to buy you breakfast anyhow; you were fairly lively. What'll it be? This fleabag
offers only something called 'cafe complet,' a bleak promise at best. Or you can
get decent and we'll creep slowly out to see Sloppy Joe."
"Come back to bed."
"Woman, you're trying to collect my life insurance. Sloppy Joe? Or shall I
order for you a cup of lukewarm Nescafe, a stale croissant, and a glass of
synthetic orange juice for a luxurious breakfast in bed?"
"You promised me waffles every morning. You promised me. You did."
"Yes. At Sloppy Joe's. That's where I'm going. Are you coming with me? Or
shall I order for you the Raffles specialty of the house?"
Gwen continued to grumble and moan and accuse me of unspeakable crimes and
urge me to come die like a man while promptly and efficiently getting up,
refreshing for the day, and dressing
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