Scuffing his heels as he ambled down the dirt road the man whistled tunelessly, lips puckered, brows furrowed in contemplation, one foot leading the other down a road he had been on for a looooong time.

Bright, the sun. Hot too. But up ahead, just around the next curve over the top of the hill, was a pond. Deep and still, one end covered, protected, by a giant willow tree, the far end a gushing stream only a few feet wide but determined to be heard from across the water. There he would rest, sit his self down and contemplate, wonder at, muse over, just plain think about, how some folks just couldn't admit they were wrong.

He'd wonder why they couldn't. He'd think about why they didn't. He'd make up entire conversations with imaginary people just to talk out his theories but in the end he just didn't understand.

Of course, he couldn't remember the last time he had been wrong about something but he was sure he had been, must have been; wasn't everyone, sometime?

And there he'll sit, thinking and never understanding, trying to empathize but having no personal history to relate to, to fall back on, to learn from because the Arrogant SOB is right.

Again.

LOL