The Metaphysical

She’s slightly

obsessed

with the metaphysical.

 

We sit under a tree

by the lake

one night.

Do you ever think,

she says,

about whether there actually is

such a thing

as, let’s say,

a chair--

or whether a “chair” is simply an

amalgamation

of tiny particles,

atoms

that are as far apart,

relatively speaking,

as the stars in the sky,

and it’s only a chair because we

arbitrarily

assign that term to it?

 

What’s it matter? I say

and grin

and wrap my arm

around her.

Because I’m taking this

Philosophy and Social Ethics

class, and we’ve been

talking about things like whether

abortion or

the death penalty

is morally permissible,

which can and should determine

whether we continue to allow

abortion or the death penalty...

but does whether or not a chair is,

in fact, a chair

affect how you would

sit in it?

 

That’s the thing--

she slightly more than whispers,

wide-eyed, into the night--

we don’t know.

I shoot her that glare

that lovers so often do,

as if to demand

further explanation.

I just find it fascinating

to think about...

okay.

Look at me. Look at my face.

You’re not seeing

my face.

You’re seeing the light

bouncing off my face

and hitting your eyes.

 

But--

there must be some way I can

derail this train of thought--

I really am

touching

your face, stroking it

right now...

right? It’s not just,

I don’t know,

the feel

bouncing off your face and

hitting my skin, is it?

 

Who knows?

She raises an eyebrow

and smiles.

 

You’re not going to get into

is-there-such-a-thing-as-reality

on me,

are you?

Because it’s a tad pointless,

if you ask me--I mean,

even if we were to decide that

nothing is real,

let’s face it,

we’d still go on living our lives

as if it were--

we’d still have to

eat, and drink, and

go to class, and all that...

wouldn’t we?

What else could we do--

stop living? Starve to death

just because we’ve convinced ourselves

there’s no such thing as “food”?

 

Hmmm...

The gears inside her skull

are starting to turn--

might I have won this round?

Well, maybe it’s more like

this: If you were

having a dream--

and you knew it was a

dream, and you had the power to

wake yourself up, but you were

really, really enjoying it--

would you want to wake up

for the sake of honesty?

or would you want to

go on dreaming?

 

I’m tempted to say,

Only if you

were in it...

Instead, I release her

and shift my position.

So help me understand,

because I think it might be useful

for me to know....

Are we really having

this conversation?

 

I don’t know--

she shrugs, and gives

her broadest smile yet--

what is a conversation

but an arrangement of words?

What are words, anyway?

She winks.

 

But...

if we have no way of

knowing whether we actually are

sitting here together,

under this tree, talking...

that doesn’t mean we have to

stop sitting here,

stop talking...

does it?

 

She beams--

Not a chance...

--and tilts her head

toward me, a beam of moonlight

playing upon her hair....

How could she not be real?

 

She’s slightly

obsessed

with the metaphysical.

Maybe that’s

what I love

about her...