I happened to say something to the husband, last night, in the course of our regular conversation, and he said, “That’s a great title for a novel,” and the conversation rambled on, and I wanted to get back to the point I was ever-so keen to make, twenty minutes later, so, in order to reiterate, I repeated what I’d said before, and he said, “You know what... That’s still an incredibly good title for a novel.”
And I said, “But I want to make my point, because I feel very strongly about it.” So I made my point, and he refuted it, beautifully, by paying me one of his painfully eloquent and impossible to gainsay compliments, and I tried to make him understand, and he absolutely refused.
I still thought I was right, and I probably was, but... you know what? By then, it really didn’t seem to matter very much in the grand scheme of things. So, I shut up.
I leaned over to my side of the bed, to where my computer stood, leaning up against my bedside cabinet in the manner that I leave it, so that I can simply reach over and scoop it up whenever I feel the need, and I sat it on my lap, and I opened it.
“What?” asked the husband.
“What?” I asked back.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he said.
“I do that,” I said. “It’s fine. I’m just making a note of that title.” The husband makes little notes in the little black moleskine notebooks that he carries about his person wherever he goes or leaves on every surface. I've gone digital.
“It’s a great title for a novel. You really ought to write it for me.”
“I shall,” I said, “but you won’t like it.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because I’m right,” I said.
“That’s OK,” said the husband. “It’ll take a while to write the book, and by the time you get to the end, you’ll have worked out that I’m right. It’ll all come out in the rewrites.”
You’ve got to admire his confidence.
It really is a great title.