Where does she get off telling me, like she a math teacher. I'll show her numbers that don't add up, and even imaginary numbers, theoretical numbers. She don't want to get in my radius, lest I get my hands on her diameter, feeling intimately the circumference of her circle. If I wanted warmth I'd have looked elsewhere, or donned a pair of wax wings for which to fly towards the sun. "You come to my center, you enter, the winter." A man is too crazy to have a regular relationship with a companion, don't you think? That's why we cry over obscure subjects, or if we drop a piece of pizza. Imagine the cheese sticking to the floor, and all you pick up is a piece of cooked dough with some marinara gore on one side. Or a snow globe shattered on the floor, with snow falling between the rough-cut floor boards, to the place were pencils and pennies and paperclips go. "Rosebud" he says up top, in the chair. Nobody under the floor but us chickens.
The perfect bracket. You try. God laughs. I wouldn't even spare a try. I can't do too much glorifying of student-athletes, because I like for them to "keep their feet on the ground", not be broke celebrities. The lost productivity! My bathroom! But I'm sensitive in some areas, like a city girl-a mousy type. The office has a pool, a dead pool! Win a pizza! That self-same pizza I had last night, and none to be the wiser, but Dad.