Idyll

When there is just the two of us in the room, and I am intently staring at how conspicuously his eyebrows meet, or the depression on his upper lip and talking about it, there is actually three of us in the room, I say. There is obviously the two of us in flesh and soul. And besides, there is another me. Right beside us, the couple. Sitting perpendicular to the axis that connects the two of us. Quietly, existing with large eyes she, the third person, isn't taking notes or anything. She is noticing the passage of moments. And submerging in our heavenly inaction. I tell him about her. Ask him to keep looking only at me though, and not get distracted by searching for where she is. Instead, he tells me, there is actually four of us in the room. I jump to an alarm, looking for that other woman of his imagination. But then he adds. There is obviously the two of us in flesh and soul. Then there is the other me, who I just mentioned. And then there is the other him. The fourth person. Our two other persons spare us a glance, and then continue at each other. We the real ones, end up sometimes as reflections and then sometimes those distant observers are the apparitions and we stay real. Amid such fluctuations, we inch closer to an idyll.