It Was Never a Question of Size

“It was never a question of size,” she said, “but of proportion.”

He gave a slack-jawed stare as she continued moving objects from one container to another.

“How can you possibly say that?” he asked.

“Easy,” she said, not slowing for a moment. “The truth always comes easy.”

“Apparently not to you,” he snorted.

“Size doesn't matter, as long as the ratios are close.”

“You're saying if it's small, that's okay if everything else is also small?”

“That's not how I would put it, but yes.”

“How would you put it?”

She turned toward him, a tube of toothpaste in her hand. “That's not important. Why do you insist on fixating on minutiae?”

“We're doing that again, are we?”

“Honestly, I don't know what we're doing.”

“No, you don't,” he said. “You never have.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, it's just one of your shortcomings. No need to feel ashamed about it.”

“One of my shortcomings? Ashamed? You're not making any sense.”

“Says the lady holding a tube of toothpaste.”

She looked down, and it was true, and it filled her with shame. But why? It was merely an object. She remembered this and let go of the shame while keeping a firm grasp on the toothpaste.

“You're fixating on minutiae again,” she said.

“And you're imposing your values on something that falls outside whatever system you've created.”

“I've created?”

He laughed. “Surely you don't think your beliefs about what constitutes minutiae are universally held. You can't possibly be that arrogant.”

“I'm not arrogant, I'm right. There's a difference, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Do you?”

She stared at the toothpaste. It was small.