A magnet sits in the expanse. He sees glimmering, or he sees nothingness.

Objects that glimmer come to him. This, he knows. Objects that come to him cling to him. This, he knows. 

He sees an object glimmer. It will come to him. It will cling to him. And the object does come. So of course, the object will cling. This, he knows. 

You’re a beautiful piece of metal, the magnet says. 

Thank you, responds the object, intrigued. But I am not a piece of metal. 

I see many pieces of metal, and your glimmer is unlike any I have seen before. 

I am not a piece of metal. 

If you are not a piece of metal, darling, then why do you glimmer? You are metal. Come closer to me. 

The object is interested in the magnet, so she does move closer. 

See, you’ve moved closer to me. Metal moves closer to me. You are metal. The magnet knows so much. The magnet is so knowledgeable about metal and the object and the expanse. 

I am not a piece of metal. I am a piece of glass. 

The magnet has never heard of glass. The magnet only knows glimmer and closeness and clinging. 

I see your glimmer. I am watching you move closer. You are made of metal. 

The glass is confused. Is she metal? She has known herself to be many things. The magnet is so certain. 

She does glimmer. She does move closer to the magnet. These are things that pieces of metal do. I am a piece of glass, she says as she clings to the magnet. 

Metal clings to magnets. You are metal, and you are mine. 

--

The glass and the magnet argue many times. 

It is never about whether the glass is a piece of metal. It is always about whether the glass is a piece of metal. 

The glass finally detaches from the magnet. I was never a piece of metal. This, she knows. I told you I was not a piece of metal. This, she knows. I am a piece of glass. This, she knows.