“Good enough,” she repeated.
I must have asked her too many times. I began seeing myself reflected in her eyes — foolish. The coffee stains on my shirt betrayed my fatigue. I had not left the cafe for seven hours.
“What does that even mean? ‘Good enough’. Would you say that after we have sex? ‘Meh. That was good enough’.”
“This isn’t sex babe. This is work.”
“It’s like sex.”
“Stop it.”
I was half-joking. I contemplated the difference.
Sex. There was the ideal of sex — we find our hero in each other. Then, we celebrate our mutual admiration by linking our pleasure-makers. Rolling in shameless ecstasy, we elevate ourselves.
Work. There was the ideal of work — we are productive, not busy. We align our integrity with conquering a common challenge. We seek the greatest positive impact. We find meaning in the fruit of our ever-expanding self-efficacy.
Then, there were other realities.
Sex. There was the recreational, shameless using of the other for short-lived indifferent pleasure. We escape from the banal, from loneliness, or from ourselves. We make contact with our bodies, avoiding our eyes. Gratuitous sex.
Work. There was the passive striving in the direction of someone else’s goals. We follow the obedient path of least resistance. We trade trailblazing for treadmills and call our hamster-selves "busy". We see our occupation as a means to the end of something unrelated. Gratuitous work.
I stared at the title page of my presentation. Raising my eyes, I saw her, waiting with a tired smile. I let my face relax.
“Fine. It’s good enough.”
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