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—So, what are we looking at here?
—You tell me.
—It’s a . . . smudge, right?
—Charlie says it’s the human soul.
—He also thinks gluons are guardian angels.
—That’s hard to disprove too.

We’ve seen it all in this lab, at least the tiny stuff, and we couldn’t observe it without the instruments. In other words, every day we press our noses against the nearly invisible.

—It moves.
—It’s been doing that all day.
—I’m not used to seeing anything move.
—Well, no, we look at dead things.

Not technically dead, I guess, not always. Ultrathin slices of cellular tissue have life in them you could say, but they don’t move. That’s different.

—What’s your theory?
—Malfunctioning equipment.
—And if it isn’t?
—Flawed observation.
—And if it can be replicated?
—In other labs? By other observers?
—Yes.
—Mass hallucination.
—Are you sure you mean mass?
—Serial hallucination.
—Induced by?
—Undue influence of prior results.
—But how do you explain the first results?
—Malfunctioning equipment.

Yes, we talk like this, at the lab, and at home. Bullying me with dialectic on the job serves a scientific purpose. At home, it pisses me off and ruins his chances of getting me into bed.

—Have you rebooted the scanner?
—Hoping it will disappear so we won’t have to explain it?
—Yep.

That would suit me too. I thrive on white shadows of anti-matter in my professional and my personal life. If fluctuating charges in rogue electrons could explain my partner’s bitchy behavior, I’d be relieved, but the soul? No. If we’ve found it, and it’s confirmed, there’s an end to wiggle room. We’re together but single because he gives me room for doubt. Anything that proves itself makes me squirm, and I’ll want out. Of course, that’s only a theory.

Copyright © 2008, 2025 David Hodges