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Fabric of Spacetime {Story Fragment}
Jan. 25th, 2009 01:30 am[Setup about how a couple entered the restaurant, description of what they looked like, note that the woman was very focused on her knitting, and that the man took care of putting their names in, steering her to a place to stand while they waited, guided her to the table when it was their turn to be seated, and helped her take her chair. At no point during this does she look up, say anything, or indicate awareness of the world around her.]
It had been a long day for Emilia. [description of travails] So when the young man stopped her before she could even begin to ask what they would like to drink, she almost said something sharp and probably unwise to him. But there was something about him, a tension in his face and an urgency in his voice as he cut her off while still remaining intensely focused on the woman across from him, that made Emilia stop.
"Wait," he repeated, "just until the end of this row. Please. It's terribly important."
So she did, looking at the woman, waiting curiously. There didn't seem to be anything particularly special about the work she was doing; some lace pattern that she couldn't really follow. The man had lapsed into complete silence, all of his attention directed at the needles, watching every loop, every stitch, every movement as the woman worked.
Finally, she finished the row, and as the last stitch slipped from needle to needle he breathed a deep sigh of relief and visibly relaxed, as if someone had pulled a plug in one of his shoes and all of the tension was draining out of him. The woman busied herself putting the knitting away, and Emilia was overcome by curiosity.
"What was that all about?" she asked the man.
He looked up at her, "You know how some physicists talk about the fabric of spacetime, and how they're interwoven and everything?"
"Um... sure?" Emilia wasn't really sure what he was talking about, but she vaguely recalled hearing something about that on the radio or news or somewhere.
"Well, they're close, but they're wrong."
"Oh?"
"Spacetime isn't woven," he said, glancing meaningfully at the woman across from him, "it's knit."
It had been a long day for Emilia. [description of travails] So when the young man stopped her before she could even begin to ask what they would like to drink, she almost said something sharp and probably unwise to him. But there was something about him, a tension in his face and an urgency in his voice as he cut her off while still remaining intensely focused on the woman across from him, that made Emilia stop.
"Wait," he repeated, "just until the end of this row. Please. It's terribly important."
So she did, looking at the woman, waiting curiously. There didn't seem to be anything particularly special about the work she was doing; some lace pattern that she couldn't really follow. The man had lapsed into complete silence, all of his attention directed at the needles, watching every loop, every stitch, every movement as the woman worked.
Finally, she finished the row, and as the last stitch slipped from needle to needle he breathed a deep sigh of relief and visibly relaxed, as if someone had pulled a plug in one of his shoes and all of the tension was draining out of him. The woman busied herself putting the knitting away, and Emilia was overcome by curiosity.
"What was that all about?" she asked the man.
He looked up at her, "You know how some physicists talk about the fabric of spacetime, and how they're interwoven and everything?"
"Um... sure?" Emilia wasn't really sure what he was talking about, but she vaguely recalled hearing something about that on the radio or news or somewhere.
"Well, they're close, but they're wrong."
"Oh?"
"Spacetime isn't woven," he said, glancing meaningfully at the woman across from him, "it's knit."
