“I prefer books myself,” said Reg.
“My father was a psychiatrist, so everyone expects me to be one as well.”
“And will you be happy as a psychiatrist?”
“It’s my career.It’s not about being happy.”
“Why shouldn’t you be happy in your career?”said Reg.
“Why do you want to be a poet?”
“I don’twantto be,” said Reg.“I simply am.”
“Why, though?”
“I write poetry because I can’tnotwrite poetry.”
“But you were saying you can’t write,” said Joel.
“That’s temporary.I’ve managed a few pieces lately.”
“In my shower,” said Joel.“On your apartment wall.In the sand at the beach.”
“My muse comes when it comes.I don’t command it.”
“Have you considered carrying a notebook?”said Joel.
Reg went into the cottage, and hunted up the battered copy ofHow to Be Toppby Geoffrey Willans that Martin had brought over from England.One of the many little pieces of home they’d clung to since moving to Canada.He returned to the boathouse, where Joel was mercifully finishing the last of his Combos.
Reg rolled the desk chair to the side of the bed and sat.
“What are you doing?”said Joel.
“Reading you a bedtime story.”
“It’s not bedtime,” said Joel.
“You’re in bed.You’re wearing pyjamas.It’s time for a bedtime story.”
Joel looked at his watch.“It’s 3:05 p.m.”
“And halfway up the stairs was your bedtime yesterday, apparently.Is that watch really necessary?There isn’t anywhere you have to be, is there?”
It was a veritable saucer of a watch, looking obtrusive on Joel’s slender wrist.
“It’s so I know what time it is,” said Joel.“I notice you don’t wear one.”
“Time is not my master.”
“I’ll bet you’re always late to things,” said Joel.
Any residual guilt Reg may have felt about his choice of book dissipated.
“As an academic, you should appreciate this.”Reg opened the book and read it aloud.He put particular emphasis on the term “new bug” whenever it appeared, sometimes accompanied by a meaningful look at Joel.
At first, Reg enjoyed himself.But before long, Joel stopped him to correct a point of grammar.
“It’s called artistic licence,” said Reg.