In the morning, Milt telephoned at eight. Her voice was thick with sleep, and her answer abrupt.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Milt. I think we should wait. After all, there really isn’t any hurry—”

“Isn’t there?” Milt groaned. “If you only knew!”

“Knew what?”

“How much I love you, Naomi, I can’t live without you!” He said it as if he meant it, which indeed was true.

“Let me think some more,” Naomi said.

She thought. She thought until nine that evening. Then the telephone jangled and Naomi Winkler said the sweetest, most wonderful word in the English language.

“Yes,” Naomi said. “The only thing I ask though—”

“Anything!” Milt said joyously. “Ask me anything!”

“Well, I don’t want to get married until the fall. I just don’t have any summer clothes at all, Milt, so if you don’t mind—”

“The fall? But that’s months from now. We can’t wait that long, Naomi. We just can’t!”

“But why not? Why rush? You haven’t even met my folks yet—”

“We can’t wait,” Milt crooned, albeit a trifle hysterically. “We just can’t wait, Naomi. You must believe me. We have to get married right now. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest—”

“You mean elope? I couldn’t do that, Milt!”

“But you must!” He almost shrieked it.

“Well, I really don’t understand your attitude,” she said primly. There was a pause. Then, “I’ll think about it,” Naomi said.

She thought about it. Another day passed.

Then, the evening before the third day, Naomi appeared at the door of his apartment carrying an overnight bag.

It was the shortest honeymoon on or off the record. At the door of the South Pleasure Ridge Park Motel, Cabin #15, Milt feverishly bussed Naomi through her veil, set the overnight bag inside the door, and told her: “I’ll be back as soon as I can, darling. I’ve, uh, got something terribly important to do. A matter of, uh, life or death. I’ll be back in a little while.”