“What are you doing?”
She could see what he was doing, of course: He was sitting in an easy chair, staring at the spot up across the room where the light green paint of the wall met the white of the ceiling. He had a blank page in his lap and a pen in his hand, but all he was doing was staring.
“I’m writing,” he said.
“Posh,” she retorted. “You’re sitting like a lump of lard wasting the day away.”
He turned to her and grinned.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re so welcome,” she sneered, and stalked away.
And he began to write: “‘What are you doing?’ She could see what he was doing, of course …”