Socrates at Lunch

Or maybe it's brunch.

Meno. Would you pass a carrot, Socrates?

Socrates. Apologies, Meno. I had the last one.

Meno. Do we not have any other vegetables?

Socrates. We have celery sticks. But were you about to ask some other question?

Meno. Socrates, if humans are animals, then our minds are shaped by evolution—nothing more. Even our sense of right and wrong is entirely biological. Socrates, will you tell me, why should I be kind to the stranger? Why should I weep for the ailing child? And yes, Socrates, I would take the celery. Would you also pass the good dip?

Socrates. But which dip do you mean?

Meno. You know the one. The dip that Anytus brought.

Socrates. But you presume I know the ‘good dip’ of which you speak.

Meno. I do, Socrates.

Socrates. And you described this dip using only a word, ‘good.’

Meno. I don’t see your point.

Socrates. There is a married woman I know who takes great pleasure in song. Her husband however is prone to headaches—or so he says. This husband has forbidden his wife to sing in his presence. This pains her. When her husband travels to the market this woman sings beautiful, sad songs. She sings of purple sunsets. Of shattered vases. Of injured mares. Of the quiet love of true companionship. But when her husband returns, she must stop, even in the middle of a verse. Now, intelligent Meno, if I refer to the ‘bad husband’ do you know who I mean?

Meno. I do.

Socrates. She raises her eyes when I pass. So far, I have not met her gaze. She is married. But maybe, Meno, I should let my own gaze linger? So she knows I share her interest? Would that be right?

Meno. That would not be right, Socrates.

Socrates. I suppose not. But she is beautiful, Meno. Don’t we all deserve to sing? Perhaps I’ll go visit her in the afternoon when the dying light makes her dark hair bright.

Meno. And what of the husband?

Socrates. There are ways of dealing with him.

Meno. I see.

Socrates. Say the word, Meno, and I will run to her now. I will meet her gaze and more. Then she will sing of sunsets and cows and anything she desires. I will love her as she deserves.

Meno. This is selfish, Socrates.

Socrates. I want to help her.

Meno. Socrates, don’t.