Spoiler! :
Three is the law of the universe.
There are always three bears, three brothers, three tests to win the princess, three lines before repetition becomes significant. There is the body, the mind, the soul. The land, the sea, the sky. Biology, Physics, Chemistry. Three is the most beautiful number, a number of eternity.
The one is the birth of the Universe.
Imagine the darkness before the light, the contentment of nonexistence, the peace of silence. The first particles, fusing, merging. Changing. Violently changing. It’s a revolt, fiercer than the Devil’s, louder than life’s, more insignificant than any war waged by man. Imagine you. Imagine me. Imagine the battered copy of Republic against your purple knuckles, the red in your cheeks. You called me “geek” because that’s what everybody else calls you. The bus stop is quiet. Evening sets, and the lamp lights flicker on. Your face burst to life.
Four is the number of construction.
I know, because when I was four-years old there were four pillars holding up my room, four legs holding up my chair, four feet raising my bed, four limbs allowing me to function in everyday life. So the second time I met you, I bought you four books about philosophy, and I told you four jokes about mathematics, but you didn’t laugh once. But I didn’t mind. I can’t mind, not with you. I’d try as many times as I’d like, as long as it was for you. And besides—I made you laugh the fourth time we met, at least.
I first recited pi when I was fifteen-years old.
Because you were never impressed by how I could calculate the height of a skyscraper by looking at its shadow, or the distance of a most certainly dead star. You were never impressed by me calculating how fast we could accelerate on your parents’ Volvo without hitting a tree, or how much friction you’d need to hit the brake. I sung, but the notes were only dissonant to you. I was reading a story in French, dripping mathematical splashes you called ‘meaningless’. But pi isn’t mathematics. Pi is a story. And I knew how much you loved stories.
Nine is for that time someone called nine-one-one when I broke your window.
I swore to your parents I was only passing by, but admittedly I could’ve been more convincing if I hadn’t stored so many pebbles in my jacket. It was a mathematical error on my part; I forgot to take into account the shape and weight of the pebble before throwing it. “You’re capable of mistakes?” You laughed after I got out of the precinct, ten minutes before my folks would give me the standard admonishment. “And here I thought you were just a good-looking calculator.”
And I looked at you, brow arched, amused. “You call me good-looking?”
You shook your head. I thought I saw a familiar red on your face. “I have low standards.”
Two is for two A.M in the morning, when you caught on.
Maybe I had recited a hundred and two digits too much. Maybe you realized the peculiarity of having a mathematician constantly trying to impress a writer. It didn’t matter, whatever it was. The bus stop was there. The bus stop would always be there, for the both of us. You weren’t holding the Republic anymore—Carnegie replaced Plato. “Why are you still here?” You asked. Concerned. Eager.
I had arched a brow. Concerned. Eager. “Shouldn’t I be?”
Your eyes were steaming blue, the hotter colors of fire, studying me like a test problem. “Not for this long,” You concluded, zipping your jacket up. “Not for people like you.”
We stood in silence for a little while, unexplained. Content. Your eyes flickered, again, before turning back to the book. “I can’t satisfy you,” you said, “I can never satisfy you. If I could, I would. But I don’t. I don’t understand what the numbers mean. I don’t understand what you see.” You paused. Perhaps out of guilt. “I don’t understand why you haven’t left already.”
In that moment—in that short moment where the only thing that stood between us was the descending evening and the inevitable bus stop coming to carry us both away—I realized I didn’t, either. I never did. I had recalled the numbers, over and over again in my mind, and they never stopped. They stretched out, too far for me to understand, too far for anybody to understand, too far for the entirety of human existence to comprehend. But that wasn’t the point of pi. That wasn’t the point of numbers. Understanding was never the point of us.
“Three,” I had began, slowly, as the sky turned black, “Three point one, four, one, nine, two…”
And I continued. I continued, for what felt like a peaceful eternity, surrendering all hope of meaning or explanation. I chanted and recited, until I had felt your lips pressed against mine. Until the streetlight flicked on, and we both understood.
There are always three bears, three brothers, three tests to win the princess, three lines before repetition becomes significant. There is the body, the mind, the soul. The land, the sea, the sky. Biology, Physics, Chemistry. Three is the most beautiful number, a number of eternity.
The one is the birth of the Universe.
Imagine the darkness before the light, the contentment of nonexistence, the peace of silence. The first particles, fusing, merging. Changing. Violently changing. It’s a revolt, fiercer than the Devil’s, louder than life’s, more insignificant than any war waged by man. Imagine you. Imagine me. Imagine the battered copy of Republic against your purple knuckles, the red in your cheeks. You called me “geek” because that’s what everybody else calls you. The bus stop is quiet. Evening sets, and the lamp lights flicker on. Your face burst to life.
Four is the number of construction.
I know, because when I was four-years old there were four pillars holding up my room, four legs holding up my chair, four feet raising my bed, four limbs allowing me to function in everyday life. So the second time I met you, I bought you four books about philosophy, and I told you four jokes about mathematics, but you didn’t laugh once. But I didn’t mind. I can’t mind, not with you. I’d try as many times as I’d like, as long as it was for you. And besides—I made you laugh the fourth time we met, at least.
I first recited pi when I was fifteen-years old.
Because you were never impressed by how I could calculate the height of a skyscraper by looking at its shadow, or the distance of a most certainly dead star. You were never impressed by me calculating how fast we could accelerate on your parents’ Volvo without hitting a tree, or how much friction you’d need to hit the brake. I sung, but the notes were only dissonant to you. I was reading a story in French, dripping mathematical splashes you called ‘meaningless’. But pi isn’t mathematics. Pi is a story. And I knew how much you loved stories.
Nine is for that time someone called nine-one-one when I broke your window.
I swore to your parents I was only passing by, but admittedly I could’ve been more convincing if I hadn’t stored so many pebbles in my jacket. It was a mathematical error on my part; I forgot to take into account the shape and weight of the pebble before throwing it. “You’re capable of mistakes?” You laughed after I got out of the precinct, ten minutes before my folks would give me the standard admonishment. “And here I thought you were just a good-looking calculator.”
And I looked at you, brow arched, amused. “You call me good-looking?”
You shook your head. I thought I saw a familiar red on your face. “I have low standards.”
Two is for two A.M in the morning, when you caught on.
Maybe I had recited a hundred and two digits too much. Maybe you realized the peculiarity of having a mathematician constantly trying to impress a writer. It didn’t matter, whatever it was. The bus stop was there. The bus stop would always be there, for the both of us. You weren’t holding the Republic anymore—Carnegie replaced Plato. “Why are you still here?” You asked. Concerned. Eager.
I had arched a brow. Concerned. Eager. “Shouldn’t I be?”
Your eyes were steaming blue, the hotter colors of fire, studying me like a test problem. “Not for this long,” You concluded, zipping your jacket up. “Not for people like you.”
We stood in silence for a little while, unexplained. Content. Your eyes flickered, again, before turning back to the book. “I can’t satisfy you,” you said, “I can never satisfy you. If I could, I would. But I don’t. I don’t understand what the numbers mean. I don’t understand what you see.” You paused. Perhaps out of guilt. “I don’t understand why you haven’t left already.”
In that moment—in that short moment where the only thing that stood between us was the descending evening and the inevitable bus stop coming to carry us both away—I realized I didn’t, either. I never did. I had recalled the numbers, over and over again in my mind, and they never stopped. They stretched out, too far for me to understand, too far for anybody to understand, too far for the entirety of human existence to comprehend. But that wasn’t the point of pi. That wasn’t the point of numbers. Understanding was never the point of us.
“Three,” I had began, slowly, as the sky turned black, “Three point one, four, one, nine, two…”
And I continued. I continued, for what felt like a peaceful eternity, surrendering all hope of meaning or explanation. I chanted and recited, until I had felt your lips pressed against mine. Until the streetlight flicked on, and we both understood.
Gender:
Points: 19607
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