After a late lunch, we go for a drink at the Bulldog Pub. The place is jammed already, but we are lucky to find a decent table. There is much laughter around us. Everyone seems to be jolly. Now and then, there is some screeching, too. “What do you make of all this?” my beloved asks in utter dismay. “C’mon,” I slap her on the shoulder, “humans are for fun!” She grins, but without any conviction. “If humans are for fun,” she seems to be thinking, “how come I don’t feel like laughing?” A good question, no doubt, but the answer still holds. “There, there,” I kiss her hand. For the foreseeable future, at least, no better answer can be hoped for.

Addendum (January 8, 2015)

My beloved was not in the best of moods over our morning coffee at the Hemingway Bar. She is hardly ever chipper early in the day, but she was saddled with bad dreams this time around. We could not but mention yesterday’s massacre in Paris, and thus I ended up by reminding her of my cheerful line. “Humans are for fun,” I beamed at her at some point. She did not feel like laughing this time, either. Whence this morning’s haiku, the link to which I sent to her by electronic mail soon after she reached her office (“The Long and Short of It,” January 8, 2015). She responded kindly enough, but I am still to make her laugh. For my sins, I cannot think of anything funnier than the human race.