Scampi: Peter? Peter!
Scampi: Jeez. Louise.
Scampi: Oh nothing.
Peter: What? What was that?
Scampi: I’ll wait ‘til it’s done.
Peter: Ah, that’s better.
Scampi: Well, yes and no.
Peter: Only I couldn’t hear you, you see.
Scampi: I see.
Peter: Above all that cello.
Scampi: It was a sight to be seen.
Peter: Pum pum. Pum-pa-pum.
Scampi: Yes yes. The virtuosity cannot be denied.
Peter: I have no wish to deny it.
Scampi: Nor do I. I embrace the virtuosity of your cellist.
Peter: Thank you.
Scampi: A four-string miracle. Angels in the snowbanks. Et cetera.
Scampi: I’m all nerves.
Peter: I won’t offer to make a fresh pot, then?
Scampi: Oh won’t you?
Peter: Have you quite taken leave of your senses?
Scampi: Yeah, yeah.
Peter: Inside voices.
Scampi: Are concealed their venomous intent.
Peter: Pardon me?
Peter: Uh, it seems to me—
Scampi: Don’t start.
Peter: Could I finish?
Scampi: Look, I’ll be better.
Peter: Would you like to stretch your legs?
Scampi: I’ve never heard you say that before.
Peter: I’m trying new things.
Scampi: I see. So you want to go for a stroll?
Peter: Well, it’s a possibility.
Peter: One of myriad possibilities, really.
Scampi: There are an astounding number of options.
Peter: There are.
Scampi: I suppose it would be hackneyed to discuss paralysis at this juncture.
BIRDS PERFORM EXOTIC DANCES ON THE PORCH, BY THE WINDOW.
Scampi: Are they like, cold? Do you think?
Scampi: You know, the birds.
Peter: Noooo. I don’t think so.
Scampi: Oh. Okay.
Peter: Anthropomorphising our animal friends is rarely a wise idea.
Scampi: I already knew that.
Scampi: You should get a birdbath.
Peter: I will consider it.
Scampi: In this same vein, if you will,
Peter: Oh really?
Scampi: Do you accept the like, premise, that under the snow the earth and all it’s earth-type stuff is sleeping?
Peter: Is that really a premise?
Scampi: It’s like one, anyway. Is the earth asleep?
Scampi: However you like.
Peter: Well, I wouldn’t put it that way.
Scampi: Would you say that I am asleep? Underneath the snow?
Scampi: Now! Now, Peter.
Peter: I would say that you are not. I would say that you are neither.
Peter: You are pecking at my literal bones.
Scampi: Your painter’s loose. You’re adrift in the damp seas.
Peter: An act of vandalism I do not appreciate.
Scampi: Surely I can see this. Surely I should return this conversation to dry land. Where you have cell phone reception. Where dust gathers on your eyeglasses.
Scampi: You want to talk about sports teams?
Scampi: I know. Thus we are stuck with the metaphorical balletdance.
Peter: I refuse to accept your axiom.
Scampi: Shall we?
Peter: Shall we what?
Peter: I will do no such thing.
Scampi: Too late.
Peter: [Drowned out by cello.]