Page 31 of The Kiss of Deception

His brow dents.

“When you finish, do you conclude ‘I stink, therefore I am’?”

“Zoe…” I don’t hear him say my name because I snort uncharacteristically.

My hand instinctively covers my mouth. I lift it, as if to say I’m done. “I’m trying to stop.”

Miles runs a hand through the fading flush of his high cheekbones, anticipating I’m not, in fact, done.

“I just Kant.” I crack up as soon as I deliver the awful punchline.

“That is such a lame joke.”

But he’s laughing too, the lines of his face dancing with indentations of amusement.

For a moment, I forget who we are, and we become just two people: a guy and a girl on a date.

Wine and food and fun.

“Do you think life is real, though? Maybe this is all some collective weird dream.” I sweep the mist from the corners of my eyes with my knuckles and contemplate. My eyes widen like I hit the jackpot, and I lean forward on the table. “Or some crazy torture experiment, like The Good Place! Us on a date, loosely getting along and not strangling each other sure sounds like a scenario that could only happen in a dream. And your presence in my life fits the criteria for elaborate torture.”

“I will pretend I didn’t hear you for the sake of this very fine date. It’s the nicest I’ve had in a very long time.”

My first instinct is to read his words as sarcasm and bite back. But he observes me in the oddest way, making me feel as though he’s teasing me with the truth.

“That’s sad,” I say. But I don’t dwell—not when I just found fascinating topics to discuss. “What does a philosopher do, anyway? Just… think? We’re all philosophers, then.”

I bring my glass to my mouth, a prudent small sip to not exacerbate the strange alcohol flutters in my stomach.

For a small eternity he catalogs my features, searching, hoping for something he’s unsure will ever come.

We’re far enough away from others that we don’t feel the brush of air each time someone arrives or leaves, but I resist the urge to fan my cheeks.

He tilts his head, the tip of his finger tracing the white and red squares on the table. “I guess, to some extent, we are. I suppose, at some point, we all wonder about the big questions of life.”

“Isn’t it kinda depressing, though? Some may say pointless.”

“And you?” His finger halts, and he reaches for his glass. “What do you think?”

Something about that simple question sounds tricky, like a careful trap disguised in plain sight.

With the support of alcohol, I choose sincerity.

“I think it’s either very foolish.” I roll the stem between my fingers. “Or very brave. Spending your life trapped in your head, dedicating your whole existence to a search for answers to unanswerable questions. Sounds like a nightmare to me.”

Usually, I’m able to ignore the fact that I don’t—can’t—know everything. I can ignore it for long enough that I can function and feel safe, feel the bite of the reins of control in my hands.

“Like, how do you make peace with the fact you will never have all the answers? I can barely handle not knowing the little things, let alone consciously dedicating my entire life to searching for something I know I’ll never find.”

“Someone who needs to know everything,” he hums. “So you’re a little bit of a control freak.”

Understatement of the century.

“Runs in the family,” I state matter-of-factly, self-deprecation evident.

“And a journalist. You trade in facts. Not possibilities and what ifs.”

I tilt my head and tip my glass in toast. “Ah! Some of my peers would disagree.”

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