An Apologist

“It is true,” he said. “It is true. It must be so.”

“It must be shown,” said the man in the doorway.

“I will say it again. It is true.” He closed the book on his desk but kept a finger between the pages to mark his spot. “It is true.”

“The problem,” the man in the doorway said, “is that you need proof.”

“Yes, that would be helpful.”

“And proof is the fruit of argument.” His back was against the doorframe and his eyes were inspecting the form. Fluorescent light broke through the triptych of panes. “And I suppose you’ll say you need a laborer to harvest it, no?”

“Ah, fie.” He said. “There’s no fruit. I suppose you’ll want proof of that. Consider, then, that both you and I have been tilling the dust for, what? How many years?”

“Perhaps,” the man in the doorway followed the frame to the floor. “Perhaps we have forgotten to sew the seed.”

“Now you’ve waxed poetical.”

“Is it better to be a poet or a sophist?” He tilted his head to one shoulder so that it was completely in the room.

“A question like that needs no answer.”

“And yet it is a question no less.”

The man at the desk opened his book, glanced at the page number, and shut the cover again. “Gerald,” he said. “That’s quite enough.”

“Is it dinner time already?” Gerald’s eye looked over the man’s head as though searching for a clock. “Dinner time already.”

The little room was dark except for the rectangle of fluorescent light that beamed through the open door. Gerald was a silhouette against it.

“Kielson,”

“Don’t call me that. We’ve been friends for more than ten years.”

“Doctor Kielson,”

“That’s not funny.”

“Michael, Gerald said. “Let’s eat.” And he stepped backwards out the door and disappeared in the light.