Elena was good at math, but never liked to admit it. Her mother wouldn’t approve. Her mother hated many things, with numbers high on the list. It was a shame, given the beauty of integers. Her mother’s rage reeked of alcohol and cigarettes and the way she talked with her teeth clenched.
Her man Harley was part of the equation.
“You don’t know how to think,” Harley told Elena one day. They were in the kitchen.
“I am thinking,” she said. She studied a lovely fillet knife.
“You are not,” he snapped back.
“I’m thinking,” she insisted, “about irrational numbers.”
Jim Anderson writes in Southern Michigan, USA.