Hollow
Is it worth it?
She asked this casually, easily, as if speaking after a brief lull in a conversation moments ago.
He answered, just as easily. Yes. It is.
She met him instantly, ready with the sureness and fearlessness of prescience, though she spun her words out in a slow, deliberate thread. Some may want to forget, she said quietly.
Perhaps, he conceded. But then, without the past, we have no connection to reality. We're like this city, constructed on unstable ground, a thin layer of speculation. He tapped the metal armrest of his chair with his forefinger to emphasize that brittle impermanence.
We managed to rebuild the world without our memories. There is no use for them, she argued gently.
We built our world on false, imagined premises, he countered. On assumed and pretended truths. We need a better foundation.
She shrugged. It still works.
But only for a little while. It will soon all collapse again.
We can rebuild another, she insisted. The failure will serve as our foundation. Through creation and destruction we establish history.
But only to a certain point. There is nothing before that failure. We are like a ship afloat; nothing moors us. Memory anchors us to reality.
Memory is only a dead weight, she said. Without our memories, we can imagine ourselves anew. We are free from the burden of our mistakes. Faultless, perfect . . .
Idealized, he finished. And thus unreal.
So you work to re-establish reality?
To re-establish truth, he amended.
Truth and reality are the same to you. She stated this with a faint note of accusation in her voice.
Are they not one and the same? he questioned seriously. Hypothetically, she knew. Beneath the irony, she sensed his despotic, obdurate certainty. It was a faith, utter, complete, and sacrosanct.
She wanted to scream.
She abruptly rose and crossed over to the window. In the moonlight, he could make out the thin ridge of her spine, the sleek knots of her shoulder blades and the two jagged scars below them. He ran his palm along the curve of his armrest, feeling again the irregular shape of those scars against his skin.
You realize, of course, there will be repercussions, she said.
I know.
She whirled to face him. The suddenness of her movement betrayed her anger, though her expression remained calm.
You think I'm being too careless, too cavalier, too flippant, he said. As usual, I suppose, he added whimsically.
Yes.
He studied her carefully. She stared back, defiant.
Are you afraid? he inquired quietly, at last.
No, she answered.
He understood the lie. So he changed tack with characteristic ease. And here I thought you and I had the same goal in mind, he sighed. He shook his head in mock disillusionment.
She noted the arch curve of his mouth and stifled her own grin. He always knew how cheer her.
We do, she assured him, half-seriously, half-teasingly. But what we plan to do once we reach our goal, that is where we differ.
He beckoned to her. She went obediently and stood before him. He caressed her arm, kneading the flesh below the soft crook. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his hand sink into her.
For a while, he remained quiet, feeling her muscles slowly relax beneath his palm. Then he asked her again: Are you afraid?
His query pierced her. She bowed her head, defeated. At length, she spoke. Memories are too painful, too sad.
Would you rather forget?
She didn't answer at first. Instead she leaned over him, until he could see nothing beyond her, the world narrowing to the compass of her naked body. He reached up, cupping her face with his hands.
Sometimes.
He smiled a little at the wistfulness in her tone. He traced her jaw with his fingers. What is so painful to you? he asked gently. What do you wish to forget?
This, she whispered.
Then she kissed him.
Is it worth it?
She asked this casually, easily, as if speaking after a brief lull in a conversation moments ago.
He answered, just as easily. Yes. It is.
She met him instantly, ready with the sureness and fearlessness of prescience, though she spun her words out in a slow, deliberate thread. Some may want to forget, she said quietly.
Perhaps, he conceded. But then, without the past, we have no connection to reality. We're like this city, constructed on unstable ground, a thin layer of speculation. He tapped the metal armrest of his chair with his forefinger to emphasize that brittle impermanence.
We managed to rebuild the world without our memories. There is no use for them, she argued gently.
We built our world on false, imagined premises, he countered. On assumed and pretended truths. We need a better foundation.
She shrugged. It still works.
But only for a little while. It will soon all collapse again.
We can rebuild another, she insisted. The failure will serve as our foundation. Through creation and destruction we establish history.
But only to a certain point. There is nothing before that failure. We are like a ship afloat; nothing moors us. Memory anchors us to reality.
Memory is only a dead weight, she said. Without our memories, we can imagine ourselves anew. We are free from the burden of our mistakes. Faultless, perfect . . .
Idealized, he finished. And thus unreal.
So you work to re-establish reality?
To re-establish truth, he amended.
Truth and reality are the same to you. She stated this with a faint note of accusation in her voice.
Are they not one and the same? he questioned seriously. Hypothetically, she knew. Beneath the irony, she sensed his despotic, obdurate certainty. It was a faith, utter, complete, and sacrosanct.
She wanted to scream.
She abruptly rose and crossed over to the window. In the moonlight, he could make out the thin ridge of her spine, the sleek knots of her shoulder blades and the two jagged scars below them. He ran his palm along the curve of his armrest, feeling again the irregular shape of those scars against his skin.
You realize, of course, there will be repercussions, she said.
I know.
She whirled to face him. The suddenness of her movement betrayed her anger, though her expression remained calm.
You think I'm being too careless, too cavalier, too flippant, he said. As usual, I suppose, he added whimsically.
Yes.
He studied her carefully. She stared back, defiant.
Are you afraid? he inquired quietly, at last.
No, she answered.
He understood the lie. So he changed tack with characteristic ease. And here I thought you and I had the same goal in mind, he sighed. He shook his head in mock disillusionment.
She noted the arch curve of his mouth and stifled her own grin. He always knew how cheer her.
We do, she assured him, half-seriously, half-teasingly. But what we plan to do once we reach our goal, that is where we differ.
He beckoned to her. She went obediently and stood before him. He caressed her arm, kneading the flesh below the soft crook. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his hand sink into her.
For a while, he remained quiet, feeling her muscles slowly relax beneath his palm. Then he asked her again: Are you afraid?
His query pierced her. She bowed her head, defeated. At length, she spoke. Memories are too painful, too sad.
Would you rather forget?
She didn't answer at first. Instead she leaned over him, until he could see nothing beyond her, the world narrowing to the compass of her naked body. He reached up, cupping her face with his hands.
Sometimes.
He smiled a little at the wistfulness in her tone. He traced her jaw with his fingers. What is so painful to you? he asked gently. What do you wish to forget?
This, she whispered.
Then she kissed him.