Lydia quietly cuts a piece of her grilled swordfish and brings it to her mouth. She is thinking that for years we forget ourselves, for internal millennia we no longer check in, we do not call to say we are late. We know ourselves by our financial statements and appointment books. We realize our savvy via our discounts and the quantity of syllables uttered by others and directed towards us, imprinted on tape. I'm asking you a question.
Light falls muted and gold on the silence clustered at their table.
Lydia's father Josef puts down his silverware and gives his daughter a look. One small ceremony after another slips by, hollow and unrecorded, Lydia senses. Rites of passage present themselves and go unnoticed. Lydia raises her glass of Pouilly Fuisse and takes a sip. She moves through the air and picks things up, turns, and puts them down again without once thinking to arrest herself, to open her third eye and gaze upon the lacustrine horizons that exist within.