Counting Backwards from One Zillion

"Do you know what your problem is?" Her hands were clamped around her hips, her head tilted slightly forward and to the side in a mixture of genuine concern, and genuine antagonism.

He stirred the amber drink in his hand with his pinky, the icecubes clacking dully against the glass as they spun. "From the manner of your address," he replied without taking his eyes from the painting he was studying, "I suspect several things. First, you believe that I don't know what 'my problem' is. Second, you believe that you, however, do know what 'my problem' is. Third, you presume to treat me to your assessment despite my sincere assertion that I am not interested in hearing it. Finally, by revealing your perspicacious observation to me, you mean to induce me to reflect and undergo some kind of transformation as a result of hearing it." He withdrew his pinky from his drink, stuck it in his mouth, and pulled it free with an audible pucker as he shifted his eyes to regard her sidelong. "Am I correct?"

She did not miss the hint of a smirk that tugged the corner of his mouth. Arrogant! Her hands came away from her hips as she took two short steps toward him, but she resisted the urge to thrust her index finger under his chin. His defenses were already up, and she did not wish to compel him to further fortification. Her outward serenity and composure persevered against her impulse to scold him. "No, Nathan," she responded gently, looking down at him with eyes as full of sentiment and earnest as she could manage, "you are not correct."

A flicker of incredulity, the tiniest expression of doubt, passed over his face and was gone, replaced by his characteristic smugness. It had not been much, but she had seen it. Although he had probably estimated dozens of potential responses from her, his brief skepticism meant that either he had not considered the fallability of his conclusions, or he knew that she had lied. He had accurately described her intent, but perhaps surprise would keep him unbalanced if she did not admit it. She took another tentative step forward, delaying momentarily as she realigned her thoughts around the ruse she had begun.

He did not shrink from her when she placed her hand lightly on his sleeve, but she nearly retracted it when his eyebrow lept into an arch. She continued, investing in her new tack. "Your brilliance is regarded by everyone as inestimable, and none would dare propose their own small notions to you -- especially not those of us who know and love you best. Especially not me." She gave him her most adoring smile and let her hand rest more firmly on his forearm. "It would serve no purpose to insinuate any concept to such intellectuals when it is assured that those concepts have been previously considered, and subsequently assimilated or rejected."

He turned to face the painting again, but did not pull away from her. Emboldened, she continued. "I misspoke before. I did not mean that I intended to apprise you of some flaw that you possess. I meant to entertain you, as I have been entertained, with the silly rumors that fly amongst our friends, aloft on winds stirred by simpler minds. I thought it might make you smile, or even laugh."

"Do you know the origin of this painting?" he asked, gesturing with his beverage.

Her resolve withered slightly at his response. She had hoped to engage him, but he meant to evade. She also knew that he would be irritated if she attempted to bring the conversation back under her topic; instead, she assented to his whim and offered, "Of course I do. You have spoken of it before."

"In those times, I bet it was easy to smile, and to laugh. I remember how I used to--"

"Nathan," she interrupted, "I detest that painting and wish you would never look at it ever again. It is horrible."

His shock was barely concealed, but he recovered quickly. "This is, perhaps, the most profound work of beauty ever created, Lydia. You said as much when it was purchased, and again when it was hung here. How can you now say that it is horrible?"

"It is horrible because it is a lie!" she protested. "How often you 'remember' things as they appear through these smudges of paint! We are here, and we are real. Here, our home, our friends. They are real, Nathan. The circumstances that brought us here, to this room, to this chair," she shook his wheelchair roughly, causing his drink to spill over onto his hand. "They are real. Do you believe that, because this painting does not depict suffering, there must have been none to depict? You feel that you are suffering now because of what has happened, that you have suffered greatly and are trying to reestablish or understand your place in the world. But that is the painting, Nathan. You are not struggling against a world that will not conform to your needs and desires, or cannot accommodate you and your condition. Your problem is that you are nostalgic for a world that never was, nor can ever be!"

A drop of scotch clung to the underside of his hand a moment more, then let go and fell away. He set the glass down on the table beside him, watching the liquid pool around the bottom. It would leave a stain on the wood. Wordlessly, he operated the controls of his chair and maneuvered around her, leaving her hand suspended in air where it had rested on his arm.

As the whir of the electric motor diminished down the hallway with him, her hand fell to her side.