The Stranger

Scene: Whiskey, Camus, and the Absurd – Jessica and Sam Discuss The Stranger

The moon hung low over the water, casting pale light across the porch. The waves rolled in steady, rhythmic, like the ticking of a slow, inevitable clock. Jessica sat on the railing, one arm draped over her knee, a cigarette balanced between her fingers. Sam was in his usual chair, a glass of whiskey resting beside him, flipping absently through the pages of The Stranger.

Jessica exhaled a curl of smoke. “You really have a thing for existentialists.”

Sam smirked. “Better than reading self-help books.”

Jessica chuckled. “Can’t argue with that.” She watched him for a moment, then nodded toward the book. “So what do you think? Was Meursault a monster, or just honest?”

Sam turned a page slowly, then set the book down. “I don’t think he was either.”

Jessica raised an eyebrow. “Not the answer I expected.”

Sam leaned back in his chair. “Most people read The Stranger and think it’s about a man who doesn’t care about anything. That he’s indifferent to life, to death, to love. That’s why they call him a monster.” He gestured at the book. “But that’s not really what Camus was getting at.”

Jessica tapped ash off the cigarette. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

Sam tilted his head. “Meursault doesn’t reject life. He just rejects the illusion that life has some kind of grand meaning.”

Jessica smirked. “So, you’re saying he figured it out.”

Sam took a sip of whiskey. “Maybe. But did it make him free?”

Jessica exhaled slowly, gaze drifting over the ocean. “He sure thought so at the end.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Because he finally accepted the absurd.”

Jessica turned back to him. “And you think that’s the answer? Just accept that nothing matters?”

Sam held her gaze. “I think that’s the wrong question.”

Jessica arched a brow. “Oh?”

Sam leaned forward slightly. “The real question is: Does life need meaning to be worth living?”

Jessica froze for just a second.

Then she let out a breath and took a drag from her cigarette. “You really don’t like making things easy, do you?”

Sam smirked. “Not my job.”

Jessica let the silence stretch between them, the sound of the waves filling the space. Then, quietly, she said, “I used to think I needed to find the truth. That once I did, I’d know who I was. That it would mean something.”

Sam didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

Jessica flicked the cigarette away, watching the ember disappear into the dark. “But what if I don’t? What if I never find all the answers?”

Sam studied her. Then, softly: “Would it change anything?”

Jessica looked at him.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure.

She exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face. “So what? I just accept the absurd and move on?”

Sam shrugged. “Or, you make your own meaning. That’s what Camus was really saying. If there’s no grand design, no divine answer waiting at the end, then you’re free to decide what matters.” He tapped the book. “That’s why Meursault smiled before he died. Not because life was meaningless, but because he finally stopped fighting the fact that it didn’t have to be.”

Jessica let that sink in.

Then she smirked, shaking her head. “You’re way too good at this.”

Sam chuckled. “I have a lot of practice dealing with stubborn people.”

Jessica raised her glass. “To the absurd.”

Sam clinked his against hers. “To making it mean something anyway.”

And for the first time in a long time, Jessica wasn’t sure if she needed the answer anymore.