Brigid stared at the back of Greg’s head for several moments, not something she was naturally inclined to do, and finally said, “Okay, spill. What’s wrong?”
“Do what now?” said Greg, looking back over his shoulder at her.
“You’ve been moping for days. What’s wrong?”
He blinked. “I wasn’t aware that I was moping,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’m just fine at the moment.”
“Oh, please,” said Brigid. “You’re too damn quiet. I’ve never seen you go this long without expressing an opinion on something.”
Greg raised his eyebrows. “Um,” he said. Then he added, “Well, I just don’t have anything to say at the moment. The few opinions I’m currently nourishing are on topics that are either none of my business to talk about, or are so trivial as to not be worth mentioning.”
“Since when has that ever stopped you?” Brigid demanded. “Where’s the strangely-poetic rant about the lack of grape-filled pastries or that men’s collars are too tight? Where’s the lyrical outburst about the career of Henry Winkler or Andrew Harding? Something must be bothering you, if you aren’t babbling on about the utterly inconsequential!”
Greg scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, touched as I am by your concern for my welfare, I promise you, everything’s fine. I just don’t have anything to say.”
She crossed her arms. “So nothing’s bothering you.”
She narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you sure?”
He put his hands in the air helplessly. “Given the way you usually react to anything I say, I thought you’d appreciate the peace and quiet.”
“That’s right!” she said. “It’s about time you stopped jabbering on all the time.”
“Okay then,” said Greg. “I’ll just go back to my not-jabbering that you interrupted, shall I?”
“Yeah,” said Brigid. “You do that.”
Greg turned back to his laptop and resumed typing. Brigid continued to look at the back of his head for a few moments, then said, “Why aren’t there any grape-filled pastries, anyway?” Greg raised his eyebrows again.