"I'm so glad we have this opportunity, Sarah," said Bob.
"I'm glad you invited me," said Sarah.
They were in an excellent, pricey French restaurant, but nothing so extravagant that Sarah would think he was trying to impress her with his status.
Sarah picked up the glass salt shaker. She wanted to feel how much it weighed. She had never done this before.
"Sarah, I've noticed that you seem more vibrant lately. Would you agree?" asked Bob.
"It's not that I have more energy. I find that I'm starting to notice things more."
"What have you been noticing?" asked Bob.
"I've noticed people on the local train as I go past them. They look like pictures -- paintings, really. I noticed that sidewalks are covered with old gum that turned black. Every night I look for the moon. I want to see how big it is and where it is in the sky."
"You know," said Bob, "there's a story about an old Zen master who lost his enlightenment. He went out into the rainy night to visit a fellow master, and told him about his problem. After all those years of light and teaching enlightenment to others, it was all gone, as if a switch had been flipped off. And the master, who he had come to visit, said to him, 'Did you put your umbrella to the left of your galoshes, or did you put it to the right of your galoshes?' The old Zen master did not know which side he had put the umbrella. And from that moment on, he had enlightenment again and never lost it for the rest of his life."
"Everything depends on the red wheelbarrow next to the white chickens," said Sarah.
Bob hesitated. "Were you an English major?" he asked.
"Yes, I was," said Sarah.
"I hope I don't seem obtuse, but I had never noticed until now," said Bob.
"Well, I'd forgotten until now," said Sarah.