“I wish I could quit my job,” he said.
“So quit,” she said.
“What? And you would support us?”
“Why not,” she said, “Women have been known to.”
“Ah, right you are. I would stay at home all day, writing. And you would return, saying ‘How is my writer doing?’ and I would say ‘Fine, I put a lot of good work in today. A lot of good writing.’ but then you would see the ink ribbon is still on the desk and I didn’t even put it in.”
“That might happen,” she said, “If you found a way to apply an ink ribbon to your laptop. But you would be free to pursue your calling. Free means you can do it, or not.”
“I would rather stay in the stereotypical role society has prepared for me.”
“Be the bread winner?” she said, “How noble of you, Sir Breadsalot. Your court awaits you each day when you get back from performing noble quests. Perhaps I should quit my job and wait in bed all day with my bosom moving up and down as I heave in longing, burn in passion.”
“That is a compelling vision you draw, m’lady.”
“Well forget it, jerk,” she laughed. Meanwhile, in the sky above them pterodactyls began to soar. It was almost hunting time. Almost dinner time.