Athena talked.
And talked.
And talked.
About the view from above: “You can really see the Earth’s energy from up here; it’s like the whole planet is breathing.”
About the clouds: “They’re made of water vapor, but they’re also made of possibility, don’t you think?”
About the other passengers: “That man in 12C has very anxious energy; I hope he’s okay.”
About our future: “I think we should get a dog. Or maybe a cat. What do you think? Are you a dog person or a cat person?”
I tried to ignore her.
I tried to focus on my book, a neurology textbook I’d brought specifically for this purpose, but I couldn’t concentrate because she kept leaning over to see what I was reading.
“Is that about brains?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s so interesting. Do you think the brain is where the soul lives? Or is it separate? I’ve always wondered about that. Like, if you operate on someone’s brain, are you touching their consciousness? Their essence? Or is that somewhere else entirely?”
I closed the book.
“The brain is an organ,” I said. “It processes information, regulates bodily functions, and generates consciousness through electrical and chemical signals. There’s no soul. There’s no essence. There are just neurons and synapses and neurotransmitters.”
She considered this.
“But how do you know?”
“Because I’m a neurosurgeon. I’ve literally seen inside people’s brains.”
“But have you seen their souls?”
“There are no souls.”
“The universe would disagree.”
“The universe doesn’t have an opinion because the universe isn’t sentient.”
“That’s what you think.”
I opened my book again.
She went back to looking out the window.
Five minutes of blessed silence.
Then: “Do you think we’ll have kids?”
I choked on nothing.
“What?”
“Kids. Do you want them? I think I do. Maybe two. Or three. The universe will decide. But I think it would be nice. Little versions of us running around, learning about the cosmos and neuroscience and—”
“We’re getting an annulment.”
