He sat across the table watching her laugh. Her eyes bright. Her hand moving to cover her mouth. She was telling him about something that happened at work and he watched her tell it. She seemed real enough. But he couldn't know what it was like to be her. Couldn't know if there was anyone in there at all. She could be empty. A perfect mechanism. All the movements correct and the sounds correct and the expressions arranged just so. But nothing behind the eyes. Just gears spinning in the dark. He would never know the difference. He tried to imagine what she was experiencing. The actual feeling of being in her body. Seeing what she saw. But he couldn't do it. He could only imagine himself imagining her. A copy of a copy. Always outside. Always looking in at something closed. She reached for her coffee. Smiled at something he'd said. Real or not real. He had no way to tell. Descartes said if something is like you and you're conscious then probably it is too. But that was no logic. That was just hope dressed up in syllogisms. He was the only one he knew for certain was conscious. Everything else was inference. Everything else was faith. He tried to remember when he'd stopped trying to really know her. When he'd accepted that she was unknowable. That everyone was unknowable. That all he could do was act as if they were here. Treat them as if the lights were on inside. Because the alternative was unbearable. She set down her cup and looked at him. Waiting for him to say something. He didn't know if she was waiting or if she was programmed to look as though she waited. If she was conscious or if consciousness was something he'd invented to make the solitude bearable. He smiled back. Said something. She laughed again. And he went on believing. Not because he had proof. But because not believing would mean admitting that he'd been talking to no one all along. That all his words had fallen into a void. That even now, sitting across from her, he was alone. He couldn't live with that. So he didn't. He simply chose to believe. And that was all anyone could do.  The Backgammon Players. From the portfolio: The Work of E. Burne-Jones.