Quadratic Equations for the 27 Unknowns

He discovers a note under the cushions of the couch, a passionate recounting of the first time she met someone who didn't smell somehow like raisins. She thought perhaps she was going insane. What he admires most (besides the elegance of her handwriting, the way it leans always to one side like a fence) is the certainty with which she handles her emotions, the expertise, the willingness to throw them into the air like clubs, knowing full-well that they will never come back down again. Sometimes we realize the point of view is not what separates us from those in the room. It is the mechanical nature of their limbs, the guerilla metaphysics that lurks just behind each utterance they make. So that we throw things over the cliff as a precaution. The gallons of milk, the untold numbers of prophylactics still in their packaging. I sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be better to just admit that the first impression that strikes the eye is a mistake, a malformation of whatever it is that actually takes up space out there, like gold bullion in a pirate's cave. But I know I am just being sentimental. Someone will come along eventually and change all that, will make us think of the bed or the broom closet where we first felt someone else's breath on the back of our necks.