Mister and Misses Frump were still and quiet for a long time.
"I can't feel my toes," Mrs. Frump stated. After a couple of seconds, she added: "Who would have thought the cold would cure my arthritis?"
"Some cure!" Mister Frump scoffed. Soon, brightening, he said, "Hey, Missus, did I tell you? We're upwardly mobile!"
"Go away!"
"It's true. The Fraser Institute says -"
"What's the Fraser Institute?"
"That we - wha? It...it's an Institute, see, and it, uhh, it's run by a bunch of guys named Fraser."
"Really? Do they all wear kilts?"
"Missus! Get your mind out of the gutter!"
"Why? That's where my body is?"
"Yer missing the point. The Fraser Institute, whether they wear kilts or not, says that the way we've been calculating how many poor people there are in the country is wrong. We all thought it was 10 or 15 per cent of the population, but it turns out that it's only about four per cent! Imagine!"
"What does that mean?"
"Don't you see? Yesterday, we were chronically poor. Today, we're lower middle class. We're moving up in the world!"
"How, exactly, does that help us?"
"Well, it, I mean...we probably won't have as much trouble getting a bank loan..."
"You've been sold a bill of goods," Misses Frump said with a harsh laugh. "This Fraser Institute thing isn't about the poor: it's a way for people with money to ease their consciences by defining poor people out of existence!"
Mister Frump was shocked; his wife never contradicted him on political or economic matters. At least, not with a cogent argument. "Listen, kiddo," he started to angrily respond, but the wind outside began to howl, drowning him out. The whistling of the wind through the abandoned building made him aware of a distinct ringing in his ears, something he didn't much care for.
Misses Frump realized she had crossed a line best stayed away from, so when the wind died down, she was conciliatory. "Honey," she asked, "do you remember the old Alhambra Park on King?"
"You mean the Balloil Theatre on Queen?"
"No, no, no. Although, now that I come to think about it, I'm sure it was the Cadenza Dance Hall on Prince..."
"Could it have been the Decatur Soda Shoppe on Pauper?"
"We've come a long way, haven't we?"
"Beg pardon?"
"No, I'm sure it was the Alhambra. I remember the mirrors on the walls and the paper flowers all over the place."
"Really? I remember a lot of plaster gargoyles..."
"I always warned you not to get so drunk you fell over."
"That you did."
"You looked so masterful, so manly, lying there on your back, staring at the top floor of the building and the stars for several hours."
"Kind of you to say."
"It was the first time you kissed me...remember?"
"How could I forget? I remember every detail!"
"Honey, did you -"
"Except where it was...and maybe exactly how it happened..."
"Did you mean it?"
"Missus, I swore that you would be the only girl for me and, through thick and thin, for better or worse, you have been the only girl for me."
The old smoothie. Misses Frump weakly smiled and swept her arm over to where she figured Mister Frump's hand was. She felt something warm and fuzzy; it was either her husband's hand or a recently deceased rat. She took a leap of faith.
Outside, the storm raged. It was the coldest day of the year, a new record; Mister and Misses Frump thought they were blessed to find shelter in an abandoned building. It cut the wind, for sure, but the walls were thin, with missing patches that allowed the cold to enter and bite them deeply.
The couple lay on their backs in the dark, conserving energy in the hope they would make it to a proper shelter once the storm had died down. But Misses' Frump's warm coat had disintegrated a few weeks earlier, and the bag with her heavy blanket had been stolen a few days ago, and...
Mister and Mrs. Frump were still and quiet for an awfully long time.
