A certain gravitas

This morning, readers, on a morning rigid with cold, whose hoary fingers had scratched frost on the window pane, Ecks was joined at the breakfast table by a dead man. The simple white robe that the man wore seemed quite inappropriate for the time of year, and his long hair tumbled down onto his shoulders.
"You know," the man said, by way of greeting, "I am terribly sad that people always forget about me on my birthday."
Conversations with the dead tend to be clouded by a certain bitterness, as they spend eternity wallowing in the unfairness of their death, slowly being consumed by resent and jealousy of the living.
"It's a big day," he continued, "and people forget about what I've done for them. What I gave to the world."
"How about if I remember you? Will that help?"
"You would do that?" the dead man's eyes glittered.
"Of course. When is your birthday?"
"December the 25th."
Ecks felt an uncomfortable, cold sensation bleed into his belly as all the bad things he had ever done flooded into his mind.
"What? You mean you're---"
"That's right: Sir Isaac Newton."
"Oh," said Ecks, rather deflated, "Of course."
There was an awkward silence before he continued.
"Didn't I see you on a burrito once?"
"No," replied Sir Isaac, "I think you must be confusing me with someone else."

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