She fumbled for the bedside lamp as her husband asked who was it now, for the love of Pete, and what made college students think they could wake up their professors in the middle of the night. She kissed his forehead and told him it was probably one of those wrong numbers again. People should really know better than to drink and dial, she said, knowing that her little joke, like previous attempts at cheerful intimacy, would most likely fall, to use a biblical expression, on uncircumcised ears. He rubbed his nose and mumbled something into his pillow, rolled over and resumed snoring, first softly, like a baby, then with rapidly increasing vigor. She cupped the phone in both hands and whispered a hesitated hello into the receiver.