The trembling voice of the old Filipino squeaked across the courtyard and through the bedroom window.
I yawned and rubbed my face and squinted at the clock through one eye. The numbers swam in the dim light, but the balut man was never wrong; he came every morning at five. Memories of the weekend floated up from the fog of sleep. I couldn’t help smiling as I recalled Aida’s joy when I proposed. I sat up and stretched again, then leaned down and kissed Aida. I whispered and my soft breath spread across her cheek.
“Aida. The balut man says it’s time to get up.”
Aida stirred and turned her head without lifting it from the pillow and looked at the clock from behind the edge of the bedsheet. Turning onto her side, she bunched the bedsheet about her neck and gave an exasperated breath.
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