She says: “It’s almost bed time.”
He says: “You go ahead. I’ll be right there.”
She walks to his desk and looks over his shoulder. “You’re posting?”
“Yes. It will just take a minute. I want to be in bed by 11:00.”
She considers his slow, precise writing style, his penchant to check every fact at least twice, and his need to research and supply the perfect link to support his presentations.
“A.M. or P.M.?” she queries.
“Very funny,” he says.
She walks away, singing, “He’s got high hopes, he’s got high, hopes, he’s got high apple pie in the sky hopes …”
She washes the ice cream dishes, wipes down the kitchen, comments on a half-dozen blogs, and — finally — prepares herself for bed. At 11:20 P.M. she returns to his desk. “Bed time?” She inquires.
He says: “I’ve got to finish this post.”
She kisses him good night and saunters off to bed “Try not to spend the whole night pulling rubber tree plants,” she cautions.