A: I’m singing in the rain, I’m singing in the rain!
D: Either you’re delusional or you are mocking the weather. It rains in Scotland. It rains in England. It rains in Ireland. This. This is not rain.
A: Sorry, wishful thinking. One day my spring will come…
D: My irrational hatred for your weather allows me to overlook your off-key singing. How do you live like this? It’s not a fit night out for man or beast.
A: . . . You really liked that Rudolph movie, didn’t you?
D: I’d take that fog as thick as pea soup—
A: More like peanut butter—
D: Over this thing you call ‘wind chill.’
A: I agree. On the plus side, however, I have a few days off and thus will not have to brave our second bout with the Polar Vortex.
D: And what will you be doing with those few days off?
A: Well, there’s TC’s first forensics meet. He will be regaling us with “To Be or Not To Be.” And then there’s the viewing party for the play – I’ll finally get to see it from the front this time. And then there’s our second viewing of the Hobb—
D: I did not mean ply us with your actual plans for the weekend, A. I was hoping more to lead you to acknowledge that you’ll be, you know, working.
A: (Sigh). Yes. That’s right. I lead such an exciting, glamorous life that I take time off work, to work. I will be writing for the majority of the next five days. I’ll be putting the final polish – and by that I mean changing the ending – of Into the Mist and hopefully (hopefully!) writing your half of The Coming Storm. And as much as I would, at this point, rather experience the UK’s somewhat dreary version of winter over ours, the Polar Vortex is enabling my intended hibernation.
D: You hear that sound, A?
A: Um, unless it’s your self-satisfied sighing, no.
D: That sigh is the sound of contentment, A. It is the sound of a happy—
D: Character with purpose.
A: Well, I’m so glad. Just do me a favor.
A: Let me sleep til 8. Can you do that for me, D? Please.
D: . . . .
A: For the love of the heavens, please?
D: For you, and for my book? Of course I’ll let you sleep.
D: Of course, whether or not you allow yourself—
A: Don’t even say it, Druid. Don’t even say it.
D: Okay, A. May the gods give speed to your pen… or your typing.
A: So long as they give substance to my wit, I’ll be happy!