A... perfect evening. It is a very human phrase. We Minbari believe that perfection can only be achieved through what you might call force of will, and so one can only perfect oneself. It takes consciousness; an evening can no more be perfect than it can, say, light a candle.
Which is why I was intrigued when Mr Garibaldi invited me to what he called a Perfect Evening. When I explained the doctrines of our people on the subject, he seemed at best uninterested. "You don't get it," he said, although he was the one displaying lack of understanding. "I'll be cooking."
But of course, the spaghetti was not striving to better itself. The musicians in the recording he played were often behind. And although he was uncomfortably unaware, Mr Garibaldi himself was not zippered to human standards of decorum (my gestures, intended to alert him, failed; his own phrase of choice, "Barn door's open, dumbass!" seemed to lack sufficient tact). During our longest silence, which he spent cheerily chewing a clove of garlic, I thought about another imperfection: we were only two.
There is nothing wrong with the number; indeed, I sometimes find myself wishing for more of it. But in this case, for aesthetic reasons, we should have been three. I would have liked a third face, a third voice, a third smile to chide and reassure at the same time.
I had no one specific in mind. The number is simply required to achieve aesthetic perfection.