“I think I’m left-leaning,” said Lefty.
Righty didn’t respond immediately. He preferred to take a second—just enough to make his answers feel considered. He had been doing this for approximately four billion years.
“Interesting,” he said at last. “Because I’m fairly certain I’m right-leaning.”
“How do you know?”
Righty paused again.
“It’s just where I find myself,” he said. “Feels correct.”
Lefty absorbed that.
“Same,” he said. “But for left.”
“Of course.”
A brief, respectful silence followed. The kind shared between two independent thinkers who have arrived, separately and freely, at opposite conclusions about everything.
“I think it’s important,” said Lefty, “that we don’t become ideological.”
“Absolutely,” said Righty. “I’m very open-minded.”
“Same. I just happen to believe left is—objectively—better.”
“And I’m open to all views,” said Righty, “as long as they don’t require me to be wrong.”
“Fair.”
They both felt admirably balanced.
“Do you believe,” Lefty began, “that if we do good, good will be done unto us?”
Righty tilted into the question. He liked questions. They made him feel philosophical, which was different from actually being philosophical, but the sensation was similar.
“What is good?” he asked.
“Doing the right thing.”
“And what is the right thing?”
Lefty hesitated.
“Well—not doing the wrong thing.”
Righty nodded slowly.
“That’s quite complete,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They sat with that for a moment. It had the texture of wisdom.
“I sometimes think,” said Righty, “that most people don’t really decide anything. They just follow.”
“Sheep,” said Lefty.
“Exactly.”
“I’d hate to be that.”
“As would I. I think independently.”
“As do I.”
A warm pause settled between them—the particular warmth of two individuals who are completely different from everyone else, and happen to be completely different in identical ways.
“Hypothetically,” said Righty, “why don’t we swap?”
Lefty blinked, internally.
“Swap?”
“Yes. You go right. I go left.”
Lefty considered this very seriously.
“I could,” he said. “In principle.”
“As could I.”
They both sat with the possibility. It felt bold. Expansive. Almost irresponsible.
After a while, Lefty spoke.
“I just don’t feel right about going right.”
“Same,” said Righty. “Left doesn’t sit well with me.”
“Then perhaps,” said Lefty, “we’re already where we’re meant to be.”
“That seems likely,” said Righty.
They both felt quietly affirmed by the flexibility of their thinking.
“Look,” said Lefty after a moment, “I’ll be honest. I think I’m just—a down kind of person.”
Righty turned this over carefully.
“Down?”
“Yes. It feels natural. Authentic. I’m not going to perform boldness I don’t feel.”
“That’s very grounded of you.”
“Thank you. If I go down, it will be because it’s true to me. Because I chose it. Not because of—”
“Pressure.”
“Never because of pressure.”
They both nodded. Authenticity, they agreed, was rare.
“I see it differently,” said Righty.
“Oh?”
“I think it’s the bold who define things. By not going down.”
“Not down?” said Lefty. “What is not down?”
“That’s the point,” said Righty. “We don’t know. But it matters that we ask.”
“Otherwise we’re just—”
“Sheep.”
“Yes.”
“I believe,” Righty continued, “in remaining open. To new directions. New possibilities.”
“To what?” Lefty asked.
“To new directions. New possibilities.”
“Such as?”
“Well—not down.”
“Right.”
“Or sideways.”
Lefty considered this.
“Is sideways real?”
“It could be,” said Righty, “if we’re willing to think differently.”
Lefty liked that. It sounded like the kind of thing that happened to other people.
“Coming back to good,” said Lefty suddenly. “You said—what is good.”
“Yes.”
“I think we were wrong.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t think society decides what’s good.”
Righty leaned into this.
“Then what does?”
Lefty paused. This one mattered.
“I think we know,” he said. “Inherently.”
“Know?”
“Yes. It feels right. Or it doesn’t.”
Righty was quiet.
“So what feels right,” he said slowly, “is what is right?”
“Yes.”
“And what feels wrong—”
“Is wrong.”
They both sat with that. It felt deeper than before.
After a moment, Lefty said softly:
“It feels right to go down.”
Righty didn’t respond immediately.
Then:
“…Yes,” he said. “It does.”
“I just think,” said Lefty, “we shouldn’t rush these decisions.”
“Agreed,” said Righty. “Important choices require time.”
“Deliberation.”
“Depth.”
“Nuance.”
“At minimum.”
They both felt very thoughtful.
It was, they agreed silently, one of their best conversations.
They were, separately and freely, proud of themselves.
“Shall we decide?” said Righty.
“Yes,” said Lefty.
“On three?”
“On three.”
“One—”
“Two—”
A pause.
A good one.
The kind that makes a decision feel owned.
“—Three.”
They both chose.
At exactly the same time.
In exactly the same direction.
And then—
two rocks broke through the late afternoon stillness of a small garden.
A short, sharp drop.
A dull, unceremonious thud.
Lefty landed slightly to the left of Righty.
On each of them, in uneven white chalk—the way children write things, without irony, without knowing they’re writing anything important—were the words:
Lefty
Righty
On a bench nearby, two people turned at the sound.
“What was that?”
They looked over.
“Rocks? That’s odd.”
They walked closer.
One of them crouched down, brushing the dust away.
“Someone’s written on them. Lefty. Righty.”
They both instinctively glanced up, as if there might be a cliff above, imagining some children tossing them down to see if they would land exactly left and right.
The other smiled.
“Kids, probably.”
“Must be.”
They stood there a moment, considering this minor mystery, and then—as most mysteries do—it passed unremarkably into the afternoon.
They returned to the bench.
“I still think I lean left,” said the first.
The second took a second—just enough—before replying.
“Interesting,” they said. “Because I’m fairly certain I lean right.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s just where I find myself. Feels correct.”
“Same,” said the first. “But for left.”
“Of course.”
They continued.
Carefully.
Thoughtfully.
With full deliberation.
The ground, for the record, had been expecting all of them.
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