She stirred in her bed, nonetheless, her long dark hair splayed across the pillow and sheets and some of her face. Whatever large truck that mean motor belonged to—it squealed to a stop right outside and ran idle for a moment before being extinguished by the turn of a driver's hand. The sound of doors opening, closing, and stuff being moved outside, pulled her from the deep depths of darkness. She did not stir, but R.E.M. sleep was gone, had fluttered away with the beginnings of a dream she would never know. Uuug! Lastly, the loud voices tore her from all relaxation, any chance of sleeping in. She was up, moaning, annoyed and uncomfortable. Janna knew she didn't need to sleep in, anyway. She slept in every day as is, waking when most working stiffs were stuffing their faces with lunch. Then again, the thirty-one-year-old woman had no job, no responsibilities, no boyfriend, no life. What was there to wake up to? The poster of David Beckham hanging on her closet door? (Sure, until you get bored of seeing the same pose and expression for the millionth time).
