“This squishy bit,” says Mei Ming, “represents the human experience, cast adrift in the sour bitterness of modern society.”
“Um,” Martin says.
“It clings together,” Mei Ming says, “because people cling together; but in the end, it comes apart, as we all must do, facing our sorrows alone.”
Mei Ming takes another sip. “Its long stringiness, ever more intense, is like boating down a white river, under white stars, while the boat’s ripples make my stomach clench, ever so little. It is the little bubbles that tie this back to the broader picture of human experience—that help me realize that the boat is life, and the journey is like the journey of Ra’s boat, ephemeral and eternal in one.”
“Mei Ming,” Martin says, again.
Mei Ming blinks. She refocuses on Martin. “What?”
“There wasn’t an artist,” Martin says. “It’s just bad milk. I wanted you to taste it ’cause I did and thought, ‘wow, this milk is pretty bad.'”
“Oh, man!” says Mei Ming. “So life isn’t really like that?”
“Now I have to spit it out,” frets Mei Ming.