conversation

"Crystal clear darling,"
she replied as her evening gown spread out in a fan of cloth, sequin, and tainted glory along the plush rug of the executive suite. The rug was Oriental, it's patterns vivacious and structured; it met an aesthetic standard that had the simultaneous result of visual stimulation and mental approval. The rug was unique, it was large, it was rich.
Her eyelashes caught a glimmer of the overhead light; an obvious trick designed by the cosmetic product she had paid slightly too much for. But the trick worked. He saw the glimmer and found himself gazing into the intensely beautiful graveyard that had long ago filled her eyes. There was something captivating in how flatly the brown of her pupils did nothing to his emotion, yet left the distinct impression of sound, artificial beauty, like there was a standard beyond his feelings that made those eyes appealing. Her eyes were the antithesis to the rug.
"I'm not quite sure you understand it,"
He spoke with a snarl that lightly merged into an almost genuine sound of concern. This tone, unlike the cosmetic, was not something bought at too high a price; at least he hadn't yet suffered any significant consequence for the way his words would both judge and condemn in an effortless string that floated from his well groomed, well trained, mouth.
He was a master, there was no question. Years had been spent training this sort of communication that polluted the air with some bleached form of vanity that left a bitter taste in the listeners mouth.
She replied duely, "No, I assure you, I know quite well what formal argument Descartes employs in both the second and sixth mediations of his book, yet I find that even though the person is seen as to exist Descartes still relies heavily upon the influence of god to account for the way one tends to exist."
She smiled a bit as she put forward the card she had chosen to play. She knew he couldn't handle any argument that began metaphysical discussion of the nature of god. His convictions were strong enough to blind him of real, cogent, inequities.
His reply was tart as his facade of civility faded, "Madam, I don't know what it is you think you're implying, but I can assure you, as both a Christian and a soldier, Descartes needs not explain anything about God other than his divine perfection."
The last word was almost spit from his mouth. It was welcomed with a warm (though slightly condescending) smile from the woman from across the room.
She stood, grabbed her belongings and began towards the door. As she neared the exit she turned slightly to look behind at the outraged man and spoke, "Your feelings do you credit sir, yet you are holding onto a chain of faith so tightly that you have not taken notice of how firmly the excess has wrapped itself around you. You are bound to each other equally; and though you will always have a chain to hold whilst stumbling around in verbal darkness, you can never escape it's grasp."
The outrage upon the mans face burst forward as his demeanor became an effort in holding back the physical reaction to astonishment and pure hatred. How dare she, how dare she!?

His mind churned on this question, focusing specifically on how she managed to avoid the dogmatic principle that had consumed his life.

He felt his hand clench tight around itself, as if a chain were wrapped snuggly against his bare skin.

She walked on, remembering the days when her evening gown did not fade so much against the backdrop of aesthetic construction, Oriental or not.