Two men were in the middle of the street, one standing, one in a vehicle.
“You’re an idiot,” said one, standing.
“Are you calling me an idiot?” said the other, sitting in the parked car.
“You’re an idiot,” said the standing one from the middle of the street.
“Are you calling me an idiot?” said the other from the car that would be parked in traffic if there were any other traffic.
“You’re an idiot,” said the first, walking off the street and toward the building.
“You’re calling me an idiot?” said the other from the safety of his vehicle.
“You’re an idiot,” said the first as he walked through the door, and as the door shut behind him, he was heard to say, again, “You’re an idiot.”
Whether the conversation continued thus, I could not say, for then it was time for me to go my way.
But the words echoes long after, and I wish I knew what prompted the man to insist the other was an idiot — although come to think, he never did clarify to whom he was speaking, so perhaps we intruded on a soliloquy.