Look at him, my active man. Sometimes he sits and turns to the left. Sometimes, to the right. I wouldn’t think of disturbing him. He is dreaming his writer’s dreams, and his dreams are inviolable. I have the privilege of serving him, and of watching him.
Did you say something, dear? Nothing yet? Still dreaming? Well, while you’re at it, I’d better get to my chores. No, don’t get up. I can handle it: Fix the engine on the Prius; recondition the Steinway; point up the bricks on the west wall; build a bathroom in the basement, from scratch. Busy, busy is the writer’s wife.
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