Robert Anton Wilson

So the week turned into two and we made a date to go to the opening of the new Nick Cave show. He hadn’t told me if he’d decided to move things forward or continue to withdraw.

We go out for steak before heading to the museum. After we see the exhibit, we’re mingling and drinking and wander around the gift shop.

He finds finger puppet versions of Schrödinger's cat. We are amused by them and start talking about Schrödinger with the gift shop clerk. I’m trying to explain pluripotency and—more specifically—quantum superposition of states. She doesn’t look terribly happy when I try to explain that, until the experimental box is opened, Schrödinger's cat is both alive and dead. I try to explain the solution used by many science fiction writers—that the universe splits into infinite realities and it’s simply random chance if we find ourselves in the universe where the cat lives or the universe where the cat dies.

‘What’s troubling about this,’ I tell her, ‘is that until the box is opened, we exist in both of them at once.’

We talk to her for a bit longer. I think he feels bad for her, because as I wander away he pulls out his wallet to buy something. Outside, he hands me one of the Schrödinger cat puppets and holds up an identical copy he has purchased for himself.

When he brings me home, we still haven’t talked about any decision he’s made. He says goodnight and kisses my cheek. I want to kiss him—to do more than kiss, but realize I don’t want to open the box just yet, so I just say goodnight and let him go.