That Cracks Me Up

“I think my window’s broken,” Mom announced to Bill over the weekend.

“Why do you think that?” he asked, smearing cream cheese on his Everything bagel.

“Because there’s a strange line on my bedroom window.  It could be one of the satellite cables that came loose.  Or maybe a shadow.  But I think it’s a crack.”

“Okay, I’ll check it out,” he offered, spreading peanut butter on my plain bagel.

He delivered the bagels to the office then wandered across the hall into Mom’s bedroom.  Sure enough, the upper pane in one of the windows had a big crack.  On closer inspection, he also saw where a rock had obviously pinged off the windowpane, creating the fracture.

“Yup, it’s cracked,” he yelled from her bedroom doorway, hoping she could hear him in the kitchen.  “I’ll call someone to get it fixed.”

“You know,” she yelled back, “I heard a loud truck noise and car doors slamming in the middle of the night, so maybe someone tried to break in.”

“Mom,” Bill said coming back into the kitchen for his coffee mug, “if someone wanted to get into the house, I think they would break a big window, like the one in the kitchen or dining room, not your little, narrow bedroom window.”

“Well, all I know is there’s all kinds of goings on across the street when people should be sleeping, so I wouldn’t be surprised.  This is Sun City.  We’re supposed to be retired here, not having parties at night.”

“You’re right,” he said, leaving the room.  “It’s the land of the living dead.  No fun allowed!”

“I didn’t say no fun,” she countered, calling after him.  “They just shouldn’t be having fun after ten o’clock at night!”

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