Trepidation. Anticipation. Was she again returning to school after a long vacation? It felt like that. The same feelings lay in the bottom of her stomach. Also a slight feeling of being in love. But this was foolish, she knew, because K was unknown to her; she did not have an idea of who he was. There was only a five-minute exchange of philosophical wisdom to go off of.

But it was still there.

Would she see him today?

She sat behind her designated seat; the pencils and paper already in place. No one has yet pitched; she was first as usual. Camus’ book lay on her table, almost as if this was a token to be admitted to the philosophy club. Was this a trick to entice K? Or was it a way of calming her nerves? She did not know.

Then he entered.

His eyes brushed over the book, she saw clearly. A faint smile, or was she imagining things? How could she begin the conversation without sounding pretentious? Whilst she thought about these questions, her mind was silenced with his voice.

“I see you managed to find a copy.”

“What do you mean,” she asked, for a moment lost as to what he was referring to.

“The book.”

“Oh, this.”

She picked up the book and instinctively paged through it; almost as if this would instil and inspire philosophical thoughts.

“It is funny how Meursault becomes the quintessential Pyrrhonic figure of the 21st centure.”

Her mind raced to somehow understand the comment by relating it to what she read. But she could not grasp any of it. How could she respond without losing him and his attention?

“I really want to answer you, but I am sorry, I have no idea what all of that means.” The feeling of being out of control made her want to drink, that feeling of floating away was the only thing she could firmly hold onto.

“Oh,” he said and turned himself halfway away.

He smiled and looked at her. “I am only kidding,” he chuckled.

She remained silent but managed to smile.

“I can bore you with the intricacies of these philosophical shenanigans, but I am sure you will not find them useful.”

Did she blush like a schoolgirl?

“Please, I would actually appreciate learning about this. I have been trying to, but the ocean of knowledge I am trying to swim in is too big,” her hands were trembling and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her body screamed for wine, her mind blanked out for a second.

“Surely,” was all he said as the art teacher walked in with her usual flamboyance.

***

“You see, we all need to face that dreadful day one day when we question the meaning of it all. And for Camus, we could not reach toward some fixed idea or religion to help us understand our meaning in the world. For he thought that this would be too much of a leap.”

She drank the coffee she ordered, but her body screamed for alcohol. The trembling did not go away, she managed to hide it.

“And Meursault being the embodiment of Camus absurd here, the one who does not take the leap, instantiates the Pyrrhonian figure who does not search for meaning in dogma.”

The words somehow made sense to her, but she could not place them yet.

“And this is the strangeness of it all, this being becomes a zombie to us. I mean, who would react in these ways? Are they not un-humanlike?”

“Yes,” she said when he paused.

“Exactly,” he sat back and drank the tea he ordered.

She could not fathom all of it yet, her mind again raced in different directions.

The coffee seemed to numb her now, her mind raced anew with different ideas. But rather than inspire her, it alienated her from herself. She felt a chasm form, one that sucked her into a void of unimaginable truths, yet they escaped her reach. She looked at K whilst he talked passionately about the subject at hand. She could not fathom what he said, nothing made sense. She stopped him mid-sentence.

"Please slow down."

He looked at her with surprise.

They stared into each other's eyes. For a moment the world slowed down. Not because of a feeling of love, but rather one of philosophical friendship. But Maya felt a deeper connection to this mysterious man. She wanted to know more, but at this moment her mind slowed down and she did not understand anything that flowed from his mouth. Yet, she knew it was of profound wisdom.

Postscriptum, or A Detour of Thought

I thought about something strange today, I want to rewrite the whole story in the same style as James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. This will obviously be a tremendous task, but one that I think will be very productive and creative!

In any case, I hope you enjoyed this modulation. I could have made the dialogue a little longer, I might continue it in the next modulation.

Happy reading, and stay well.

The story is my own creation. The photographs are also my own, taken with my iPhone.