wired—by—numbers

She asks him if he believes in a god, in hell and heaven. He smiles at the absurdity, swims over to meet her depth. “If we decided to call a flower a bucket,” he says, “that’s what they’ll be.”
She sips her drink and follows the glass with her eyes, placing it on the table. “What about love?” she says. He waits for her thought to finish and as she looks into his eyes she says, “you don’t seem awkward.”
“What do you mean?”
“On your profile.”
“Oh, right.” He says through a smile. “I think sometimes people enjoy the art but dismiss the artist.”
“You’re quite cryptic.”
He laughs because he too hates ambiguity. “Well, if two awkward people meet, are they still awkward?”
“You’re saying I’m awkward?”
“I’m saying I don’t feel judged by you.”
She liked his way. He was different. He held a certainty about himself behind a veil of hesitation. He was also handsome, not only to look at, but his energy. She could tell he was comfortable with his thoughts and she admired that. And there was a pain behind his eyes; a sorrow; a resplendent darkness. She wanted to know it. To question it. To pry and break him open. “So,” she says.
“So?”
“Love?”
He laughed. “Right, um.” He moved his face into a ray of sunlight, his olive skin incandescently glowing like honey. “Love, love, love,” he whispers to himself and then looks at her. “I think love is subjective. We add meaning and place it in a box and it becomes a commodity, packaged and sold on shelves. Intent on finding a singular explanation, we’ve turned love into something it was never meant to be.”
“What is it meant to be?” She asks, her eyes bright.
He winks and says, “A bucket.”