Going down with the one-up-man-ship.

Black stars, she said, must be invisible.

To us? I asked.

We can’t see them.

But we know they’re there.

I guess I don’t know what you mean by invisible.

This was a typical conversation. Intelligence overwhelmed by passive aggression.

Something completely ambiguous captured in a box. With a flag. With a bomb.

Stars, I said, aren’t there for our benefit. They’re just there, no matter what.

She shook her head and smiled. You’re wrong.

I crossed my arms.

She kept smiling.

A tiny explosion. A disagreement agreement.

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