(Ooh! I love this game even though I suck at it!)
…
"I’m not saying it’s a replacement for good coffee, " Fictional Doug said, “But you have to admit the algorithm follows the recipe pretty well.”
Fictional John took a sip and in that instant knew without exactly knowing how he knew that this was not the brew from his favorite place in the city, an elixir truly worth six dollars. Still… “It’s not bad,” he admitted. “What’s wrong, TJ?”
Fictional TJ looked dejectedly at the folded slip of paper he had pulled from his wallet. The one with the neatly written letters I O U on it with a smilie face in the O. The one left by the Mrs. or one of the boys which told him without opening it why he did not have six dollars on him now.
“I hope this thing takes debit cards,” he muttered.
“No, no,” Fictional Marco said, “You’re going about it the wrong way. We’re beyond capitalism here.”
Fictional John smiled. “This isn’t just rational, remember? Don’t forget the magic!” With that, he held out a hand. A steaming, delicious-smelling cup of coffee appeared in it. “Here you go.” He glanced at Fictional Doug. “It’s not exactly…”
“I never said it was,” Fictional Doug stated firmly. They both laughed.
Fictional Marco added to the scent of coffee with his own suddenly materializing mug. He was about to add a piece of cherry pie when he saw a woman make a bee-line toward him with a bottle of Perrier in her hand. He grimaced slightly.
“Can I have a Sauvignon Blanc here instead?” she asked hopefully, holding her bottle up.
Fictional Marco resisted the powerful urge to roll his eyes. He managed a patient, polite smile. “Wrong guy,” he said.
“Oh, sorry,” the woman said softly, backing up and heading for the elevator doors across the room, on the same wall as the large window looking out on the spectacular vista of Galaxy M31.
The doors opened as she reached them. Two old gentlemen emerged from the elevator, one in a brown sports jacket holding a copy of Bubbles followed by another with long hair, a mustache, and a copy of The Reflexive Universe.
“No, I get it, Pete,” the man in the sports jacket said, “As long as these spheres refer to the temporal, ephemeral conditions of human existence, the metaphor partly works. But a torus is better than an orb to describe the self-sustaining nature of the cosmos. You said so yourself: if it’s everything, then it’s really nothing.”
“But I wasn’t talking about the universe as a whole, Arthur. At least not directly.”
Fictional Geoffrey chuckled. You just never knew who would show up in this Waiting Room.
An infectious, grandfatherly grin - an expression totally unbecoming a curmudgeon - broke over the face of Fictional Ed at the prospect of watching Mr. Young take Mr. Sloterdijk apart.
“This isn’t limbo,” he announced, rubbing his hands together, “this is heaven…”
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