by Joanne Mansfield

Created on: May 22, 2008

Too damn humid!" Herb Rosenblatt roosted in a blue and white chaise, cognizant only of the squawking from his radio. Once he was a robust go-getter, scrambling to make a deal, but Herb's retirement had reduced him to baser needs: television, radio, sofa, and cigars. And not necessarily in that order.

Lillian gently squeezed his hand. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Did you say something," he asked, slipping the headset off to one side. She repeated the question. "If you enjoy lookin' like a greased pig," he answered. Herb tugged a white handkerchief from his hip pocket and swirled it across his bald head. "For God's sake, Lil," he held the sodden cloth to her face, "I must look like a spigot with all this sweat."

Lillian ignored him, something she had mastered during the fifty years of their marriage. The diminutive woman nudged lightly against the rail of the lanai; as she stood gazing at the changing colors of the Miami skyline, the faint clanging of the halyards against masts melodically floated to her ears. Lillian smiled. Along the foamy shoreline, a family of sandpipers darted frantically in search of food.

"Look, Herb!" She pointed. Amidst her moment of self-absorption, Herb had retreated into the confines of the house. The raucous laughter from within meant one thing; he was planted in front of the television. Lillian sighed wearily. Maybe tomorrow,
she hoped, we can take a walk on the beach.

Squealing seagulls, not the usual alarm clock, awakened Lillian the following morning. Routinely arising to an empty bed, she used the extra space to stretch leisurely and mull over her agenda for the day. "Exercise with the girls." Her red, manicured nail tapped the vacant pillow. "Get my hair done." Suddenly she bolted upright. "I'm late!" she piped, springing from bed.

"Where's the fire?" Herb rummaged through the kitchen cabinet. "It's not like you have to work." He opened a package of antihistamines.

"Something's wrong with the alarm clock." She quickly poured cups of coffee. "I was supposed to meet Miriam and Rose at 8:30."

"Nothing's wrong with the alarm." Herb rested his capacious rear on a kitchen stool at the counter.

"I know I set it for 7:00," she glanced at her wristwatch. "It's not 9:00 and"

"Sit down!" he ordered. "You're making me nervous." Lillian obeyed. "Look," Herb feebly began, "you seemed kind of tired, I mean with all that fresh air, so I thought I'd let you sleep late."

"You'd let me sleep late?" she objected. "That's certainly generous of

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