We arrive at the table
With our pockets full of stones.
Smooth, heavy, polished stones.
We call them facts.
We call them the bedrock.
We have spent years collecting them
From the riverbeds of reputable journals
And the quarries of documentaries
We watched with the subtitles on.
We place them on the table.
Click.
Click.
Click.
This is the foundation.
This is where the conversation starts.
And by starts, we mean ends.
Because the stones are heavy.
They do not roll.
They anchor the tablecloth of reality
Against the wind of your uncertainty.
We are the people who know.
We know how the coffee must be ground.
Burr grinder. Conical.
Not a blade. never a blade.
A blade smashes the bean
Creates heat
Destroys the volatile oils.
This is not an opinion.
This is chemistry.
This is physics.
If you use a blade grinder
You are not making coffee
You are making hot brown sadness.
We hold this truth to be self-evident.
It is a solid object in our hands.
And we look across the table
At the others.
They have stones too.
But their stones are wrong.
We can see the cracks from here.
We can see the chalky residue.
They claim the blade is fine.
They claim the convenience outweighs the flavor.
They have built a fortress
Out of something that dissolves in water.
It is fascinating, really.
How they can stand there
Holding a handful of dust
And call it a diamond.
We feel a tightness in the chest.
Not anger. No.
We are above anger.
It is a benevolent frustration.
We want to help them swap their dust
For our heavy, polished stones.
We offer them a citation.
A link to a forum thread
Where the experts congregate
To discuss the particle distribution
Of the Ethiopian roast.
But they do not take it.
They smile.
They say it tastes fine to them.
“Fine.”
The word is a blister.
The word is a scratching on the chalkboard
Of the universe.
“Fine” is the enemy of The Truth.
Because The Truth is binary.
The Truth is the Oxford Comma.
We know this.
We know that without the comma
The sentence collapses.
The logic fails.
The toast, the eggs, and the orange juice
Become a singular, terrifying slurry.
The comma is not a stylistic choice.
It is a load-bearing wall.
We see them shrugging.
The Shruggers.
The ones with no stones at all.
These are the most dangerous.
The ones who say
“Language evolves.”
The ones who say
“It depends on the context.”
They come to the table empty-handed.
They sit in the chairs
And they float.
They are untethered by the gravity of being right.
They look at our stones.
They look at the dust of the others.
And they order tea.
We cannot trust the tea drinkers.
The ones who do not care about the grinder.
The ones who do not care about the comma.
They walk through the world
Like ghosts.
passing through the solid walls
We have erected to keep the chaos out.
How do they sleep?
How do they choose a mattress?
We know the mattress truth.
Hybrid. Latex foam. Cooling gel.
There is a correct density.
There is an optimal spine alignment.
We have charts.
We have the sleep data app.
We can prove we slept better than they did.
We have the metrics.
But they just sleep.
They close their eyes
On any surface
And they drift away.
It is offensive.
It implies that the research is optional.
It implies that the hours we spent
Comparing the thermal conductivity
Of sous-vide containers
Was time wasted.
And that cannot be true.
Because if that is true
Then the stones are just rocks.
And we are just people carrying rocks.
So we reject that.
We turn back to the ones with the dust.
At least they are playing the game.
At least they understand
That there must be a Right Way.
They are just confused about what it is.
They think the cast iron skillet
Can be washed with soap.
We gasp.
We recoil.
We explain the polymerization.
We explain the seasoning.
We explain that they are stripping away
Generations of non-stick heritage.
They hold up their soap bottle.
They say modern soap is not lye.
They say it is gentle.
They say it is “science.”
Their science is different from our science.
Our science is the old science.
Or the new science.
Whichever science supports the stone.
That is the beauty of the stone.
It attracts the science it needs.
Like a magnet.
We find the article.
The one from the university in a country
We have never visited.
It confirms the skillet theory.
We print it out.
We laminate it.
Lamination is the seal of the absolute.
Paper tears.
Laminated paper survives the flood.
We build our cubicles of certainty.
White walls.
Solid backs.
We arrange the truths on the shelf.
Here is the truth about the thermostat setting.
68 degrees for sleep.
72 degrees for living.
Any deviation is biological heresy.
Here is the truth about the loading of the dishwasher.
Bowls facing center.
Plates graded by size.
Silverware handle down.
Unless it is sharp.
Then handle up.
To do otherwise is to invite anarchy.
To throw the fork in willy-nilly
Is to spit in the face of hydrodynamics.
We watch the others.
They throw the fork.
They laugh.
They are having a good time.
They are wrong, but they are laughing.
This is the great injustice.
The burden of the Truth Carrier.
We are heavy with correctness.
We are weighted down by the optimal.
We cannot just “eat a sandwich.”
We must critique the bread-to-meat ratio.
We must analyze the structural integrity
Of the condiment application.
If the tomato makes the bread soggy
The sandwich is a failure.
It is not “food.”
It is a mistake on a plate.
We look at the Shrugger again.
The Shrugger is eating a soggy sandwich.
The mayonnaise is dripping.
The lettuce is wilted.
The Shrugger wipes their mouth
And says, “That was good.”
We want to scream.
We want to shake them.
We want to show them the diagram
Of the moisture barrier.
We want to explain that they did not experience “good.”
They experienced sub-optimal caloric intake.
They experienced a failure of standards.
But we do not scream.
We sip our water.
Filtered. Reverse osmosis. Remineralized.
Because tap water is for the unenlightened.
We adjust our posture.
Ergonomic.
Lumbar supported.
Feet flat.
We look at our stones.
They are so beautiful.
So unchanging.
They are the only things that make sense.
The world is messy.
The weather is unpredictable.
The traffic is illogical.
But the truth about the best year for movies
(1999, obviously)
Is fixed.
It is a star to steer by.
We pity those without stars.
They are drifting in the dark.
They think the reboot was “okay.”
They think the prequel had “some good moments.”
They are lost in the grey.
The terrible, washing grey.
We offer them a compass.
We offer them the definitive ranking.
Top ten.
Tier lists.
S-Tier.
F-Tier.
There is no middle tier.
Things are either Essential
Or they are Trash.
Nuance is a leak in the boat.
Nuance is where the water gets in.
We plug the hole with a stone.
We are safe here.
Inside the definition.
Inside the perimeter of what we know.
We look at our watches.
Mechanical.
Automatic movement.
Quartz is a lie.
Quartz is a battery dying.
A spring is a heartbeat.
We know this.
We feel the ticking on our wrists.
It counts the seconds of being right.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
We look at the others.
They are checking their phones.
Digital time.
Satellite time.
They trust the satellite.
We trust the gears.
We wind the crown.
We tighten the grip.
We are the archivists of the actual.
We are the guardians of the genuine.
We sit at the table.
We wait for someone to say something.
Anything.
So we can reach into the pocket.
And pull out the stone.
And say,
“Actually…”