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Running NumbersBy M. C. St. John QuailBellMagazine.com At first, he lost count of the freckles on her left thigh, the spent cigarettes in the painter’s palette, the laughter. Math was never his strength, the sum of cups of coffee, puns, and touches all like terms--what variable is bliss? But when he factored in train schedules
and work times, the difference between going out and heading home was negative. One night, he showed her his reasoning but she only gave him partial credit for arriving at that answer. He did the long division again, gave her the remainder. They spent late mornings at Star Lounge, the gravitational pull of her feet to his under the cafe table made his math fuzzy on rent and bills-- they were all ones and zeroes anyway, so what was the point in keeping track of funds as long as his heartbeat and word count were balanced? Problem was, the ratio went in her favor, sketchpads to refined paper, acid-free, dimensions growing at exponential rates. Her gardens bloomed from the endorphins, the take and take and take from his side. The inequality came close enough for him to count the crocodile’s teeth. There he drew the line, did the scratchwork for his word problem. He told her breakfast had given him heartburn, and his work keys were back at his place. At Ashland, he rode the train alone, reviewing his steps in logic, surprised at how such a complex number could reduce to one if he worked it right. CommentsComments are closed.
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