![]() But it wasn’t Saturday, and Roger wasn’t home. At least they could get out then, go for a ride down the coast to Monterey or across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County, anywhere just so long as they got out of The City for a few hours. She wished it were tomorrow, Saturday, and Roger were home. In the living room, she fluffed the couch cushions and straightened the magazines on the coffee table and emptied the ashtrays - every day, prosaic chores, fraught with dullness. Then she emptied the dishpan and wiped her hands on a dishtowel. She finished washing the last of the breakfast dishes and put them in the rack to drip dry. Damn, but she hated the fog! It made everything so dark and cheerless, so lonely. Standing at the kitchen sink in the small duplex she shared with her husband, Roger, Diane Slater stared gloomily out through the window at the cold, rolling fog which had come in over San Francisco’s Richmond District from the ocean. ![]()
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