11 AM, Sunday Night

It's nearly 11 AM, Sunday night. I've been working on my next cover story, due today, for the local alternative. I've done the work and am just waiting for it to finish gestating and hoping it comes popping out like the last couple of hundred 5,000 word pieces. Work for a month, make 10-20-30 phone calls, sit on it for a week or two, and then write it all in just a couple of hours. Sounds easy but actually relies on you having done your homework and having 20-30 years of experience behind you.
But while I was rewriting, for the 12th time, the opening section today, Italo and Marco came over. Italo razzed me and Marco about the string roof we made over the chicken coop, but was razzed in return for not having a better idea.
They both left at 5, and I went shopping--forgot garbage bags--then went to B Wild Wings for a drink with my friend Dave, the Sunday bartender. He wasn't there. I had two drinks with his backup, then left. Don't want to be caught driving drunk and don't want to kill anybody.
Got home, was alone. Prepared a piece of fresh tuna when Italo called. Did I have any food?
"Sure, buddy. I've got chicken breasts and thighs in the oven. Made them in case you or anyone else was hungry."
"I'll be there."
A few minutes later he rolled in, found Good Will Hunting on the television, and I served him chicken, cauliflower, corn and spinach in garlic. The movie was great.
When it finished he left.
Two minutes later, Marco showed up. "I hope you dont' mind. I had a nightmare. I'm sleeping here."
And with that he flopped down on the couch in the big living room.
Now I'm happy. Now I'm a dad again. Just for a night.
Life is good.
Good night.
Hope your night was as good as mine was.