Walking My Baby

A dialog between two computer enthusiasts at a convention.

# While singing "Walking my baby back home" in your mind.

- May I walk you home?

- Yes. I'd like that.

- Where do you live?

- Chicago.

- Chicago? That's a couple of thousand miles from here.

- It was your idea. Where are we?

- Los Angeles. Don't you remember?

- Why Los Angeles? Oh yes, we were attending a convention. About
computers, somehow. I remember seeing you in the back of a booth.

- I saw you, too. I don't remember much after that. We don't seem to
be at the convention now.

- No, it's sort of dark, and we're on a street. Are we still in Los
Angeles? I remember saying something about Chicago. We aren't there,
are we?

- No, I don't think so. I remember. You said you lived in Chicago.

- Oh yes. I live in Chicago. I think. I flew here yesterday, or the
day before. What time is it?

- I don't know. It's dark. Does it matter? I can find out.

- No, it doesn't matter. But I think I want to go inside, somewhere.

- Where do you live? I'll take you there.

- You asked that already. Chicago. But that's too far. Too far to
walk, I mean. But I think I have a room in the hotel where the
convention is. We could go there?

- Yes, we could. Except, where is it?

- Well, we are walking this way. If we turned around, and walked back
the way we came, maybe we would come to it.

- Good idea. Let's try it at least. I don't remember turning a corner.
Do you?

- No, but then I wasn't thinking about that. I was just holding your
hand, and walking wherever you walked. But I remember I have a room
key. Would it have the name of the hotel on it?

- I don't know. Sometimes they do, I think. You could look.

- I'd have to let go of your hand. It isn't worth it.