number strangely revealed a familiar voice. Slurred, yet recognizable. If scent could be transmitted like sound, I would have instantly known cigarettes and alcohol were involved. His musings came in proper order: apologies, a hush, some laughter, explanations. He said he dialed my number because that was the first thing he could think of. Or remember. No questions were asked. I imagined him twirling his hair as we spoke. He could memorize a string of numbers in one try, especially if it belonged to me. He found himself outside the door to freedom; how it happened, he tried to recollect. He claimed that blinding lights flashed before his eyes. I wondered whether he was becoming a poet or that was what he really saw. There was a way of knowing whenever he consumed too much alcohol: “I love yous” sent in the middle of the night; in the morning, a question, “Did I say something wrong?” Sent items deleted. Memory clean. He seemed to be an equation I could not solve. Adding certain parts of him did not make up a whole; perhaps there was more to him that I could barely point out. A few years back, I read out loud the question from the book, to which he, half-listening, only nodded, as if he would rather check the answer at the back. He asked me what I thought about the problem. With confidence, I mentioned the formula
20