We dine at Adorno and return to my Beauvoir.



She compliments me on my Bachelard pad.



I pop in a Santayana CD and Saussure back to the couch.



On my way, I pull out two fine Kristeva wine glasses.



I pour some Merleau-Ponty and return the Aristotle to Descartes.



After pausing an Unamuno, I wrap my arm around her Hegel.



Her hair smells of wild Lukacs and Labriola.



Our small talk expands to include Dewey, Moore and Kant.



I confess to her what's in my Eckhart. We Locke.



By this point, we're totally Blavatsky.



We stretch out on the Schopenhauer.



She slips out of her Lyotard and I fumble with my Levi-Strauss.



She unhooks her Buber and I pull off my Spinoza.



I run my finger along her Heraclitus as she fondles my Bacon.



She stops to ask me if I brought any Kierkegaard. I nod.



We Foucault.



She lights a cigarette and compares Foucault to Lacan.



I roll over and Derrida.





