Continuous Deformations

Sartre likes the idea of an article on his progressive ideas, being published in Velosophy.

He invites Sweezus to lunch.

We can chat informally, says Sartre. Simone will be there. But she won't cook us lunch.

We could pick up a box of donuts, says Sweezus.

I don't think so, says Sartre. There's bound to be cheese in the fridge.

They head off to Sartre's apartment.

Arthur has left the Café de Flore already. 

Here he is on the pavement, looking for Baldy.

He sees a few drops of red paint.

Mind the paint, says a waiter. It's wet. It has only just dripped there.

Off what? asks Arthur.

Off an infant, says the waiter. A woman in a decorative jacket has just finished spraying the infant. 

Which way did they go? asks Arthur.

That way, says the waiter. I'm going that way myself. My shift has just finished.

Has it? says Arthur. 

Together they follow the paint. 

Until it becomes clear that their inclinations are leading them elsewhere.

Sweezus and Sartre arrive at Sartre's apartment. Sartre knocks on the door.

Beaver likes me to knock, says Sartre.

Simone de Beauvoir opens the door.

My love, says Sartre, we have a guest. This is Sweezus. He's interviewing me for a prestigious magazine.

I remember him, says Simone. From Team Condor. How did you do this time?

We finished, says Sweezus. Didn't make the top ten. But we did okay.

Simone is wearing a charming bamboo hat this morning. Perhaps she has made it herself.

It has raffia roses stitched into it.

I was just going out, says Simone. But make yourselves comfortable. I'm sure there's some cheese in the fridge. Oh, and prunes, don't forget to eat all your prunes, Poulou.

She sweeps out, in her flowered bamboo hat.

Dear Beaver, says Sartre. She really does care for me.

Yeah, says Sweezus. Okay. Let's get started. 

Do you have a notebook? asks Sartre.

Shit no, says Sweezus. I mean, no. I've got an excellent memory.

Sartre looks doubtful. Words can be twisted.

I'll take notes, says Sartre. And you can have a copy. 

Cool, says Sweezus. Shall we eat first?

Sartre opens the fridge and takes a soft cheese out. 

It's hard.

Better wait for a while, says Sartre. 

What about the prunes? says Sweezus. 

They are my prunes, says Sartre. 

Fuck. This is not going well.

Topology, says Sweezus. What is it, and why are people like donuts?

It's a branch of mathematics, says Sartre, rolling a prune between his thumb and first finger.

I was good at maths, says Sweezus.

Then you will understand that topology is concerned with the properties of space which are preserved under continuous deformations, says Sartre, spitting his prune stone onto the clean kitchen floor.

Yeah, says Sweezus, looking at the brown smear that the prune stone has left there. 

He would kill for a prune. Or better, a donut.

Deformations such as stretching or crumpling, says Sartre.

Or smearing, says Sweezus. 

No, says Sartre. That involves disintegration. The object must must remain whole.

Like a donut, says Sweezus.

You have a mathematical mind, says Sartre. Like me. In fact, I see my young self in you. Would you care for a prune? I can spare one.

Yeah, thanks, says Sweezus. I'm freakin' starving.

Open, says Sartre.

Sweezus opens. Sartre inserts a prune.