Neither knew the subject. Both had strong opinions.
Obviously Wrong
“Well, you’re wrong,” said Oswald.
“I haven’t finished,” said Bert.
“I could tell where it was going.”
They sat on the old fence with their feet dangling above the mist. Behind them, a red moon hung between the branches. Bert rested his chin on one hand and waited for Oswald to explain.
Oswald spread both palms.
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“The circumstances.”
Bert nodded slowly, giving this the consideration it appeared to require.
“Not always.”
A bat passed between them and the moon. Oswald followed it with one empty eye socket, then turned back.
“I never said always.”
“You were about to.”
As I Was Saying
The fence creaked as Oswald shifted to face him.
“You can’t know what somebody’s about to say.”
“You knew where I was going.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Oswald raised a finger. A strip of his sleeve slid down his wrist, and he pushed it back before continuing.
“There are examples.”
“Give me one.”
“I’m choosing.”
Bert swung one foot. He liked this part of an evening with Oswald: the moment before an example, when anything might be brought into the conversation to prove something else.
Once, Oswald had supported an argument with a wheelbarrow. Bert had forgotten the argument, but he remembered enjoying the wheelbarrow.
“A gate,” Oswald said at last.
Bert looked towards the crooked one at the end of the fence.
“What about it?”
“It can be open. Or closed.”
“Ours can be neither. It fell off.”
“A proper gate.”
“You should have said.”
Oswald lowered his finger and watched the loose gate resting in the weeds.
For a little while, only their heels moved.
About What?
“The point is,” Bert began.
“Exactly,” said Oswald.
“You don’t know what my point is.”
“Then tell me.”
Bert straightened. A small piece of bark broke beneath his hand and dropped soundlessly into the mist.
He had been ready with something a moment ago. Oswald’s gate had pushed it aside.
“What were you answering?” he asked.
“Your remark.”
“Which remark?”
“The one about getting there.”
Bert turned his head.
“I said it was getting late.”
Oswald stared at him.
“I thought you said it’s better to get there late.”
“Where?”
“That’s what I was disagreeing with.”
They looked along the empty lane. Nothing was arriving, late or otherwise.
Bert began to laugh. His jaw clicked, which made Oswald laugh too. The fence complained beneath them, and they both caught the rail before they slid sideways.
“The gate was good, though,” Bert said.
Oswald glanced at him.
“Was it?”
“I was interested to see what you’d do with it.”
“I was hoping you’d say something useful.”
One Last Point
The wind lifted the ends of Bert’s headscarf. He tucked one beneath his collar and settled back against the post.
“Anyway,” he said, “it is getting late.”
“Yes.”
“Shall we go?”
Oswald looked towards the lane, then at the space beside him.
“We could stay a little longer.”
Bert let his feet swing again.
“Have you got anything else?”
“To discuss?”
“Yes.”
Oswald considered the moon, the tree, and the fallen gate. Bert waited quite happily.
“We should choose a subject first,” Oswald said.
“Agreed.”
“I’ll choose.”
“Why you?”
“Because I suggested it.”
Bert lifted a finger.
“That doesn’t necessarily follow.”
Oswald turned towards him, delighted.
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