“–been put behind bars for contempt of court, but this morning the defending party claimed the legal situation had been misconstrued–”
Reuben flicked the television off.
“More of the bullshit which drove me to stop practicing law.”
Soft laughter floated through the office. “You think you’re making lives better by working here instead?” said Owen, fingers hovering over a dirty keyboard. He looked up from the monitor to scrutinise Reuben, who glanced at the floor to hide the play of emotions which flickered across his face: confusion, unhappiness, annoyance.
“Why are you here if you don’t believe in what we’re doing?” he replied. “The chemicals we manufacture, they… they’re not real.I mean, what is and isn’t real?” Faint notes of desperation, of guilt, modifying his voice and charging his words. “When my football team wins, is that happiness diminished by the time and money I invested to make it significant? When I watch a movie, are even those feelings real? Manipulated? What does a genuine feeling feel like?”
It was Owen’s turn to examine the carpet, head down in contemplation as he took a fragment of paper from inside his jacket and turned it over carefully in his hands. It was blank, the ink rubbed off, but the words were left with him.
“All we need is a little more hope, a little more joy…” he murmured. Then his teeth clenched. He looked up. “The emotions made here can be bought. They can be… measured… bottled. Taken daily before breakfast. They help people, they do help people. But not for long.” He was biting off his sentences, his voice wavered. “Never think of them as real.”
A momentary silence. Reuben rubbed his arms against an imaginary chill. “I don’t think they’re real, Owen. I’ve just begun questioning whether it matters.”
