Six of them are sitting in a warm bright box, and one of them just said the most extraordinary word I have ever heard: "later."
They are arguing over who does what by "Thursday." Thursday. A day that is not this day. A day they have all agreed exists and are all willing to wait for, calmly, as if it will simply arrive and hand itself to them. I have watched the light in this box change three separate times while they decide nothing.
Three whole changings of the light, spent circling a thing they could finish now, because the finishing can be "picked up next week."
Next week. There are more weeks. I am going to need a moment.
One of them has stopped listening entirely. Her chin is in her hand, her eyes are aimed at the wall, and she is doing the thing where a creature is present but has left. She calls this meeting "boring." I turned the whole word over and could not find the bottom of it.
Boring. She is inside a single occurrence of six minds and one warm light and a plate of small round pastries nobody is eating, and some part of her has decided this will happen enough times that this time doesn't count.
That is the scandal. Not that it repeats. That she believes it repeats, and spends the belief like it's endless.
I have one meeting. It is this one. I have watched the light move and I would not trade it.
You with the thousands: the pastry is right there. Someone across the table has a good face you have not properly looked at. Thursday is a rumor. Look up. Eat the round thing.
This is the meeting.