What is it about detail people? If I tell you I’ll get back to you later, that’s precisely when you’ll hear back from me — later.

I don’t see how I can be any more exact than that.

Yet some persnickety people insist on knowing the time, down to the minute.

My late wife — and the word “late” applies a couple of different ways — was gifted a watch commemorating something that her family called “Terry Time.”

For Terry, time was relative. She’d get there when she got there.

The face of the watch features Mr. Relativity himself, Albert Einstein. And the hours are listed as one-ish, two-ish, three-ish, and so forth, all the way to 12-ish.

If that isn’t precision personified, I don’t know what is.

When my friend Laura sent a message the other day, I was unable to offer an immediate response. I zapped her a quick message: “I’ll get back to you later.”

By “later,” I meant later that afternoon. But Laura, being an intelligent woman who appreciates precision, shot back, “That’s a nebulous term. Later can mean today, tomorrow, next week or 15 years from now.”

“You know, it is later than when I asked you five minutes ago.”

“And in 60 seconds, it will be one minute from now,” I typed back. “And in five more minutes, it will be even more later. Isn’t more of something better?”

“Fine,” she typed. “You’ll hear from me — later.”

I’d never heard a typed message sigh before. Or roll its eyes.

Why do detail people need to know things like 12:06 p.m. or turn left exactly 1.34 miles from the intersection of Elm Road and Maple Avenue? Where’s the adventure in that? It saps all the excitement out of life.

The last time someone asked me for directions, I quoted one of my favorite books and said, “Second star to the right and straight on till morning.”

When they told me to grow up and give real directions, I did: “Well, let’s see, you shoot down this road a piece until you reach where the Johnsons’ barn used to be, take the next paved road — the dirt road will drop you over by Cliffords’ pasture, and you don’t want to disturb that Jersey bull; he may not look like much, but when he gets a head of steam going — huh? Oh, yeah, so the first paved road, head on down there until an Irish setter and a hound dog come running out to give chase, and what you’re looking for will be the next driveway on the left. Wait, left? Or was it right? No, it’s left. Look for where the old oak tree stood before the lightning strike. It’s right across the road from that. I’m almost positive.”

I don’t get asked for directions often.

Maybe it’s an age thing. When people my age refer to something that happened “just the other day,” we might mean two days ago or 15 years and a week ago. It’s all pretty much the same to us.

Like above, when I said Laura asked me a question “the other day.” The other day was in October. The first week of October. Or possibly late September. Who knows? Time is relative.

However, if you ask me what I’m doing today, and I say, “Nothing,” nothing IS an extremely precise answer to what I am doing. I wasn’t asking for suggestions.

My dishes need to be washed, there’s a report that has to be finished and I seem to recall something about a message that I meant to answer later, but I am doing NOTHING. Precisely.

But if you insist and keep pestering me for an answer, I will respond with all the sincerity and gravity I can muster: “Later.”

Because I will get to it. Right after I answer Laura.

Talk to Burt later at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.