“Everything is relative.”
Larry said this, hoping the woman in front of him wouldn’t know what he meant. It was something others did to Larry a lot, and it always worked. His smart friends could shut him up in a hurry by telling him something was relative; he never had an answer.
Now he sat in a dimly lit marble chamber facing Mrs. Lomax, who thought he was a much smarter man than he actually was. He saw that she expected wisdom from him. She wanted to know what the autumn harvest would bring. So he uttered the magic words that always reduced him to muteness, hoping it would do the same to her. It did not.
She stared back, directly into his shallow eyes. “The harvest is relative?” she asked.
“Um, yes,” Larry answered, knowing he would have to ride this train to its final station.
“Well?” she said from beneath a slanted eyebrow. “Relative to what?”