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First, fifteen minutes of this and that-- committees, projects, news and books. They have much in common: a house, two children, a love of language, art, and music, equal positions in the same department, and tenure--just this year. Then he broaches the Question: well, what of us? And from its case they take the worn planchette. Fingers atremble, they wait and waver. The little pointer determinedly points nowhere. Then--movement on the scarred board! It speaks of him. Wrong! He knows she did it. It speaks of her. Wrong! She knows he did it. He knows it wasn't he--or was it? She knows it wasn't she--or was it? Accuse. Deny. Rage. Weep. All under control. All kept on the square little board where messages multiply, mutate, and mutilate. This was the agreed-on ground. But they grow tired, knowing, each, where the other misunderstands and knowing--or do they? who has forced a move. At last they remove their hands, put the planchette and board away, a little saltier with a few new tears, he loving her but fearing her anger and hating his fear she loving him but likewise in fear and in hate-- But weren't you pushing that thing around the whole time? each asks speechlessly. Locked in a game of chance, held in a trance, playing together alone. |
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