The Best Of All Possible Worlds (Fiction)

She read, "Everything I've written has been completed between the heavy din of indifference. No wonder I've created such ineffectual tripe, dodging and darting as I have between the spaces between meaning and apathy."

"So your theme is universal indifference, right?" Marla asked, half looking at her friend and half at the spoon she used to stir her coffee.

He flicked at a croissant, pushing it across its plate with his pudgy index finger. "Do I have a theme? I wasn't aware my existence had one."

Not you, your story, "Shaded Emotions." Do you want my opinion or not?"

She pushed the manuscript toward her friend, who placed the palm of his hand in its way, bringing it to a stop in the middle of the table. "I'm sorry, you know me. I have to be flippant, it deflects the seriousness of the subject. Of course I want your opinion."

"The seriousness of what subject?" she asked, dragging the manuscript in front of her. "Do you mean your story? I thought writing to you was an end in itself? Since when does it have meaning beyond the temporal?

He shrugged his shoulders and slid down in his chair, he traced a circular pattern on the table top with his index finger, then took his hand and wiped away the invisible pattern. Marla reached out and gripped his hand as he tried to wipe a second time, "Your theme is universal indifference. Man's attempt to find purpose in a world devoid of meaning. The story is both an indictment and an endorsement, and still, its an acceptance, grudgingly, that this attempt to find meaning is in itself irrational. Everything is of the absurd, we're alone, and maybe you're right up to that point...but we're not alone...we aren't!"

She gripped his hand tighter, but realizing the urgency in her grip, released his hand. She looked down and flipped the pages of the manuscript. She looked up and spoke quietly, "You need to change the ending, you know."

Their eyes met for a moment and he smiled slightly, then looked away, "You know Marla, it's your fault my writing has been reduced to pollyannaish wish-wash."(2) It's a good thing Kierkegaard and Nietzsche never knew you!" (3)

She squinted her eyes and frowned, Existentialists, what do they know about life?"

He returned her scoff and replied, "They know we're free, even if the options are limited. The question is, which is legitimate, how I wrote before, or how I write now?"

"Does it matter, if it's all pointless?" she asked again and then began writing in the margin of the last page. She turned the manuscript around and pushed it toward him.

"...and they lived happily ever after," he read, shaking his head. He took out his own pen and amended her sentence, "and they lived happily in their ignorance."

She read the line and mocked, "Whatever" and picked up a croissant and stuffed it in her mouth, content with her naiveté. "Let's go for a walk. It's a beautiful evening, cool, and with a slight breeze. 'The moon shines and man should be content,'" she spoke in a knowing tone, aware of his disdain for all things Dr. Pangloss. (3)

He retorted, "Yes, 'Let us work without speculating...''it's the only way to make life bearable.'" (4)

"Lets go, Leibniz" he said, and picked up his manuscript and placed it in his briefcase.(5)   
As they walked to the door he couldn't resist one more quip, "'This really is the best of all possible worlds.'(6)

"That'll be enough of that!" she chided, placing her left hand in his right. I guess Rome wasn't built in a day."