It's 11:45 p.m.:
Me, calling from the other room: Sweetie? It's 11:45.
The historian: [who has been watching television stroke resting: stirs]
Me: Shall we go for a walk?
The historian: YES.
[rustling, then light cursing from the other room:]
The historian: [to himself:] I left my shoes in the car. I have to get them.
Me: If only you had a pair of back up shoes. Like some people in this house.
The historian: Do you have back up walking shoes?
Me: [PLEASE.] Of course I do. I have back up pretty much every kind of shoes. [pause:] You need a new pair of shoes. [knowing perfectly well that a shopping trip is a horror to the historian:] You could get a new pair of shoes tomorrow.
The historian: I had a plan to get a new pair of shoes once...
Me: ...I remember...
The historian: ...then I found that pair of shoe laces...
Me: ...and you were all, New pair of shoe laces? That's practically a new pair of shoes!
When we stepped outside, we could feel the storm-edge in the wind, me in one of my billion pairs of walkable shoes, him in his new shoe laces.
The historian: Feels like it's going to storm.
It really did. And on the back-home half of the walk, snow started to evidence itself out of thin air.
Me: See? You can see the flakes up there--look, in the lamplight.
The historian: No... [and then:] Yes.
[For anyone who's interested, Friday Poem Day will occur on Saturday this week.]